Everyone knows that the world of Full-Time Hunters begins the moment the young protagonist sets out to take the Hunter Exam in search of his father, Jin Freecss. That year was January 1st, 1999.
Right now, however, it is 1983. Sixteen whole years before the official storyline even begins.
Which also means, as Moger had reminded himself several times, that a certain thirty-year-old information broker known for his suspiciously plentiful smile already exists somewhere in the world. And that the famous diamond-obsessed woman, who would one day be teased as an old hag, is currently only forty-one years old.
The word only did a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.
In other words, the Meteor Street he knew from memory was not the exact Meteor Street standing outside his door today.
Meteor Street had already been a dumping ground more than fifteen hundred years ago. Throughout history it had remained a wasteland at the fringes of society, a place people preferred to forget. It did not enter the public eye until 1989, which was still six years away.
Back then, a homeless man without identification was arrested on suspicion of murder. When officials checked his background, they found he had no nationality, no records, nothing that proved he even existed. He claimed he was from Meteor Street. The authorities refused to believe him and pushed the charges through.
The court gave him no chance to defend himself and found him guilty.
Three years later, a drug-addled hitman was caught. As his crimes surfaced, it became clear the homeless man had been innocent all along.
What followed became one of the most infamous tragedies associated with Meteor Street. Thirty-one people connected to that wrongful conviction were killed: police officers, judges, prosecutors, witnesses, jurors, even lawyers. According to the reports, the killer used handheld trigger bombs, shaking hands with each target while smiling before detonating the device. Thirty-one people died in different locations at the exact same moment.
From that incident came the phrase that many would later use to describe Meteor Street:
"We reject nothing, but do not expect to take anything from our hands."
For now, though, all of that was simply the future.
The present was far more humble.
"Even the most famous members of the Phantom Brigade are still a bunch of kids right now."
Moger rubbed his temples. There was no point worrying about the timeline. Whether he arrived early or late did not matter. He needed to survive first.
And survival began with food.
He needed someone who was also hungry to approach him with a request or a commission. Only then would his invention-type ability generate something related to food.
Such people were not rare in Meteor Street. Most residents struggled just to fill their stomachs.
But finding someone trustworthy enough to actually ask him for help, rather than attack or exploit him, was a completely different challenge. That part was harder than stealing food from them outright.
A headache, to say the least.
Moger frowned as he considered his options.
At that moment a loud commotion erupted outside his shabby home, pulling him out of his thoughts.
"What happened out there?"
He walked to the door and opened it just enough to peek outside.
Before he could make sense of the scene, a furious roar echoed across the garbage-stacked slope.
"You little worms, sneaking onto my turf to steal from me! You really got guts!"
At the top of a mountain of trash stood a towering boy with a wild explosion of hair and a ripped vest paired with tattered shorts. Even from a distance, his bulky frame radiated the kind of strength only raw talent could produce.
"I am not letting you off today! You better wait for your beating!"
He crossed his arms, baring his teeth in a fierce snarl.
"But if you hand over what you stole, I might let you die quickly."
He flexed his dark, muscular arms.
"Run, and I will make sure you suffer for ten deaths worth!"
Beside him, perched atop a broken crate, crouched a young girl who looked almost like a tiny wild primate. Her pastel-purple hair made her stand out against the dull scrapyard. She held a splintered wooden stick, swinging it with an imitation of threat. Yet the calm, unreadable expression on her face robbed her pose of its intimidation.
Despite their combined presence, the group on the receiving end of the threat scattered instantly.
"He really has not gotten any smarter."
"We are dead either way if we go up there. Does he think we are idiots?"
"Who talks about owning territory in Meteor Street? Wokin really is a moron."
"If he does not die at least once, he will never get rid of that stubborn stupidity."
Their mouths were bold, but their feet were even bolder as they sprinted away at full speed. In a place where even small injuries could be fatal, no one wanted to fight a brute like Wokin. Even if you won, there was nothing to gain. If you lost, you suffered for nothing.
"Stop right there!"
Seeing them run, Wokin roared again and charged after them, rolling up the sleeves of his already destroyed vest.
The purple-haired girl hopped after him with small, nimble steps.
For a thirteen-year-old, Wokin was enormous. His height, his physique, even the pressure his presence carried, already surpassed many grown adults. He was undeniably gifted, and years later that gift would be even more dangerous.
But talent alone could not make up for his lack of experience. The old residents of Meteor Street were slippery and used to surviving through tricks and speed. They toyed with him for several long minutes.
No matter how hard Wokin pushed himself, he could not catch a single one of them.
Those wretches escaped right under his nose.
"Those cowards!"
Wokin collapsed onto a pile of garbage, panting heavily. He tugged at his hair with both hands, visibly irritated.
"What are you looking at?"
He snapped the moment he sensed eyes on him. He turned his glare toward the person standing nearby. His voice was sharp and impatient.
His mood was clearly terrible, and this was absolutely the worst time for someone to approach him.
If the kid had been older, or held anything remotely valuable, Wokin would have swung first and asked questions never.
"Thought one of those idiots stayed behind, but it is just a dumb kid. Tsk."
He waved his hand dismissively.
"If you do not want a beating, then get lost."
Moger studied him. The massive, foul-tempered Wokin sat surrounded by trash, pulsing with restless energy. Nearby stood Mara, shorter and younger, holding her broken stick like a small guardian shadow. Her expression was unreadably blank, yet her presence somehow steady.
Moger thought for a moment, then asked quietly:
"Are you two hungry?"
And with that one question, the story truly began to move.