My new room is exactly what you get when you ask the city for "cheapest possible box that isn't actively collapsing."
Third floor, back of the building. One narrow window. One narrow bed. One crooked table. A hook on the wall trying its best to be a closet.
The plaster is cracked in three places. The ceiling has a damp stain that looks like a country I'll never visit. The floorboards complain when I breathe too hard.
It's perfect.
Not comfortable. Not safe. But mine.
The landlord is a man with a belly like a barrel and eyes that see money first, people second.
"You pay first of every month," he said when I signed. "Cash. No delays. No stories."
"Do I get a discount if my room collapses?" I'd asked.
"You get a broom," he'd said. "To sweep what's left."
Fair.
Now I sit on the bed, counting my money again, even though I already know the numbers.
One stack: rent.Second stack: food, soap, repairs, emergencies.Third, very thin stack: actual savings.
When I was at the orphanage, savings meant "future dreams." Hunter exam, travel, long-term plans. Now savings mean "don't die if you get sick and can't work for a week."
Less romantic.
I tuck the rent stack into a small envelope and slide it under the loose floorboard I claimed yesterday. The other two stacks go into their own hiding spots. Extra work, but this city steals from people who make things easy.
I stand, stretch, feel my joints crack in a familiar, friendly way.
Body check: good. Muscles warm from morning push-ups. Legs fine from stairs. No pain, just the usual tired.
Outside, someone yells up the stairwell.
"Turn that damn music down!"
Someone else yells back something creative about his mother.
I smile, just a little.
Welcome home.
My routine snaps into place faster than I expect.
Wake before dawn. Floor exercises: push-ups, sit-ups, squats, slow stretches so I don't lock up. Bucket wash in a bathroom shared with two other rooms and a sink that doesn't like me.
Then out.
Some mornings I go uphill to the orphanage for breakfast—free porridge is still free. Other mornings I grab something cheap on the way to Haim's: bread and whatever passes for protein if I have coin to spare.
Work until my arms feel like they're made of lead and machine oil. Deliveries, lifting, cleaning, learning which parts go where and what happens if you put them wrong.
After that: walk the city.
Not aimless. Never aimless.
I "take the long way back" a lot. Through new streets. Along the canal. Past alleys I've marked as "don't go here alone after dark" and "don't go here at all unless you have a death wish."
I'm building three maps at once:
Streets: where everything is.
People: who belongs where, who looks wrong in their own neighborhood.
Violence: where it tends to collect.
That last one is getting clearer.
There's a bar two blocks from my building. I never go in. I'm not stupid. But the alley beside it is useful.
End of shift, early evening, I take my "long way" and pass by it again.
The alley is narrow, with one dead end and no good escape routes. Useful to know for "never fight here" reasons.
Tonight, like most nights, there's a cluster of men near the back. Not drunk staggering. Not loud gamblers. Quiet men, spaced just enough to move if something happens.
They're not Guards. They're not Fighters from the pit either, but they have that same worn-in way of standing that screams I've been hit before and I remember it.
Two of them are facing each other, hands up, no gloves. Not brawling. Sparring.
I slow, pretend to check something in my bag, and watch from the mouth of the alley.
They move fast, but not flashy.
One feints a jab, steps in, low kick to the leg, shifts weight just enough that when the other counters, his fist hits air. The sound of knuckles barely missing skin is sharper than any punch landing.
Guard up. Chin tucked. Feet never crossing. Every step small and efficient.
I feel stupid all over again remembering the last time someone swung at me and I dodged by pure panic and luck.
The taller man throws a hook. The shorter one rolls under it, hits him twice in the ribs, once in the shoulder, all in one breath. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to teach.
They stop. Talk. Laugh. Adjust something. Go again.
No one here is pretending. No one is just "tough." They're building something on purpose.
I stand there in my too-big shirt, small bag over my shoulder, and think:
This is what I'm missing.
I'm stronger now. I can crank out hundreds of push-ups, haul heavy metal, run stairs all day. My balance is better, my lungs don't betray me.
But my fists are just… meat.
No training. No proper stance. No drilled reactions. No idea how to handle someone who actually knows what they're doing.
I could hit someone hard. Once. Then what?
I'd like to avoid finding out the hard way in a place where people bet on who bleeds first.
One of the men notices me.
He's in his thirties, lean, nose broken at least once, eyes the color of dirty snowmelt. His gaze flicks over me: height, posture, hands, bag, exit behind me.
"Kid," he says. Not aggressive. Just acknowledging.
"Just passing by," I say.
"You always pass by from that exact spot?" he asks.
He's right. I've probably been too consistent.
"Maybe I like the scenery," I say.
He glances at the stained brick walls and piles of crates. "You need better taste," he says.
The shorter man wipes sweat off his forehead with a towel.
"You from around here?" he asks.
"Nearby," I say. "Cheap room. Thin walls. Neighbors with bad music."
He huffs a laugh. "So, everywhere in this district."
"Pretty much," I say.
They don't tell me to leave. They don't invite me in.
One of them goes back to shadowboxing alone, movements precise, rhythm steady. The other stretches his arms, shakes his hands out.
I watch his footwork. The small shifts. The weight transfers. How his body never overcommits.
I try to burn it into my brain.
Snowmelt eyes notices again.
"You fight, kid?" he asks.
"Not really," I say. "I've survived a few bad decisions."
"That's everyone," he says.
He tilts his head, studying me with that "I'm deciding if you're trouble or not" look I'm starting to see a lot.
"You want something?" he asks. "Or just standing there to look wise?"
"I want…" I start, then stop.
What do I say?
"I want to learn how to use my body so I don't die in the first real fight"?"I want to become a Hunter someday so I need a combat base"?"I want to take your style and build my own monster on top of it"?
All of that is true. None of it is smart to say out loud.
"I'm trying to see if training like that is worth paying for," I say instead. "Or if I should just keep punching the air behind my door."
He snorts.
"It's worth it," he says. "If you've got the patience. And if you don't cry the first time you get hit right."
"I'm more of an internal crying type," I say.
Shorter guy finishes his stretching, looks at me like he's seeing something faintly familiar.
"Name?" he asks.
"Ryu," I say.
"I'm Kain," he says, thumbing his chest. He nods at snowmelt eyes. "That's Bruk. We're not teachers."
"Could've fooled me," I say, nodding at the way they move.
"We're just making sure we don't die next week," Bruk says. "Old job habits."
"What job?" I ask.
He gives me a look that says "not your business, and if you're smart you won't ask again." I let it drop.
"You looking to get into trouble?" Kain asks. "You're small. People pay money to watch small people get hit. Sometimes they pay the small people too."
"Not interested in being a chew toy," I say. "I want to actually learn something before I step into pits where people bleed on purpose."
"Good," Bruk says. "Brain's working."
Kain shrugs. "If you want lessons, go to the gyms closer to the guard district. Or the legit dojos near the canal. They charge too much, but they teach clean basics."
"Clean basics sound expensive," I say.
"They are," he says. "Cheap fighting looks different. Less rules. More broken teeth."
They go back to their work.
That's my cue to leave.
"Thanks," I say.
"For what?" Bruk asks.
"Free observation," I say. "I'll send an invoice next time."
Kain snorts. "Get out of here, Ryu."
I do.
On the way back to my building, I run the math in my head.
Workshop wages minus rent, minus food, minus little emergencies. What's left isn't much. Certainly not enough for a "legit dojo" with polished floors and framed certificates.
So that leaves three options:
Find someone decent who teaches cheap.
Learn from watching and get beat up slowly.
Postpone it and hope my strength makes up for lack of technique.
Number three is stupid. I've seen enough to know how that ends.
Number two is possible, but messy.
Number one is ideal and probably rare.
Back in my room, I light the cheap lamp, sit at the wobbly table, and pull out the battered notebook where I keep my life plan.
I flip to the page labeled:
HUNTER: PREP WORK
Under "Body," I already have a bunch of check marks. Under "Money," a few depressing notes. Under "Information," scattered lines about the Association, exam rumors, and nothing concrete.
I look at the "Fighting" section.
So far, it says:
– Strong for age– No formal training– One bad punch (never again)– Needs real basics
I cross it out and write:
– Find teacher.– No underground arenas yet. Too early.– Focus: footwork, guard, strikes, taking hits.– Goal: handle normal adults without Nen by early teens.
I pause, then add:
– Do not get killed chasing cheap lessons.
Small detail. Important.
I close the notebook and lie back on the bed.
The ceiling stain stares down at me.
Nen is still in the distance. A word I never say out loud, something I only think about at night when no one's watching. I know the theory. I know I'll need it if I want to stand where the real monsters stand.
But Nen sits on top of everything else.
If my foundation is trash, my aura will be too. Or I'll die before I even get there.
So.
Step one: survive on my own.Step two: build a body that doesn't crumble.Step three: learn to actually fight.Step four: then, then, start worrying about the invisible stuff.
Kain and Bruk's movements replay in my mind: compact, efficient, deliberate. They weren't superhuman. Just trained.
I don't need to be a genius. I don't need to be special.
I just need enough skill that when the world finally throws something serious at me, I don't fold in one round.
I turn on my side, listening to the building creak, someone laugh downstairs, a baby cry somewhere next door.
The Hunter dream feels far away. A different planet.
But for the first time since I left the orphanage, I feel the path between here and there sharpen a little.
I know what I'm missing now.
Tomorrow, I start looking for where to get it.