By the time I turned five, the world had become larger in two different ways.
The first was physical.
I could run faster now, climb higher branches, and move through the forest without stumbling over every exposed root. My body had finally reached the point where deliberate training actually produced results instead of just exhaustion.
The second change was knowledge.
Books.
Dad had managed to bring back several simple texts from the trade town over the past year. Most of them were basic learning materials—children's reading guides, writing exercises, and a few thin history booklets.
Nothing impressive.
But for someone who had spent the first few years of life surrounded by nothing but spoken language, they were invaluable.
Every evening I sat near the hearth with a piece of charcoal and a wooden board, copying symbols again and again until the writing system finally began to feel natural.
Once reading stopped being a struggle, the books started revealing something far more useful.
Information about the outside world.
Trade cities.
Regional names.
Political groups.
Travel routes.
Most of it wasn't particularly detailed, but it was enough to confirm one important fact.
This world had a structured calendar system.
Dates.
Years.
Recorded events.
The books weren't precise enough to immediately identify the timeline I remembered from Hunter × Hunter, but they provided something better: reference points.
Famous fighters.
Arena tournaments.
Political conflicts.
Names that appeared repeatedly across different texts.
If I kept gathering information, eventually I would be able to approximate the current era.
Which meant I could estimate how long remained before the Phantom Troupe appeared.
For now though, that problem went into a different category.
A project.
That was the system I had started using recently.
Instead of treating my goals as vague ideas, I wrote them down.
Projects.
Each one had a purpose.
Each one had steps.
Each one had a long-term result.
I kept the list hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the cabin.
The board wasn't exactly a notebook—paper was too valuable for that—but a collection of wooden slats tied together with cord.
Primitive.
But effective.
When I opened it that evening, the first few entries looked like this:
Project 1 – Language MasteryGoal: Read and write fluently in the clan's script.
Requirements:
Practice writing daily
Expand vocabulary through books
Listen carefully to adult conversations
Status: In progress.
Project 2 – Physical FoundationGoal: Build optimal body mechanics before advanced strength training.
Requirements:
Flexibility training
Balance development
Calisthenics progression
Breathing control
Status: In progress.
Project 3 – Timeline ConfirmationGoal: Determine the current era relative to known Hunter × Hunter events.
Requirements:
Gather historical information from books
Listen to traveling merchants
Record names of important figures
Status: Early research.
Project 4 – Nen PreparationGoal: Prepare body and mind for Nen training before actual discovery.
Requirements:
Body control
Energy awareness
Breathing discipline
Mental focus
Status: Long-term.
Looking at the list always gave me the same feeling.
Momentum.
My previous life had drifted because I lacked direction.
This life would not repeat that mistake.
Every step had purpose.
Every improvement built toward something larger.
And the first project that demanded the most attention right now was the second one.
Physical foundation.
Training had already evolved far beyond simple stretching and running.
Over the past year I had experimented with dozens of small variations to see what produced the best results.
Some worked.
Some didn't.
The forest around the settlement had become my training ground.
Every fallen log became a balance beam.
Every tree branch became a pull-up bar.
Every uneven patch of ground became footwork practice.
But the most useful discovery had been the river.
The settlement sat not far from a wide forest river that curved through the valley. Most people used it for washing clothes or collecting water.
To me, it was something far more valuable.
Natural resistance training.
The first time I stepped into the current, the idea came immediately.
Water resisted movement in every direction.
Which meant even simple motions became harder.
But without the impact stress of land training.
So I started experimenting.
At first it was simple.
Walking upstream.
The current pushed against my legs, forcing every step to stabilize my balance. Even standing still required subtle muscle adjustments.
After a few days I added arm movements.
Slow punches.
Pulling motions.
Rotational movements of the torso.
The water turned every motion into resistance training.
Soon I added breathing exercises.
Standing waist-deep in the current while controlling slow, steady breaths.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Focus on maintaining balance while the water pushed against my body.
It felt strange at first.
But the results were obvious.
My endurance improved quickly.
My breathing became steadier.
And perhaps most importantly—
My awareness of how my body generated force improved dramatically.
That was something I had started studying recently.
Force generation.
In my previous life I had seen demonstrations from martial artists and athletes who talked about generating power through the entire body instead of just the arms.
Hip rotation.
Ground reaction force.
Kinetic chains.
The idea that strength wasn't just muscle—it was coordination.
So I began testing it.
Punching a tree trunk lightly using only my arm.
Weak.
Then repeating the same motion while rotating my hips and shifting weight through my legs.
Stronger.
The difference was immediate.
Power didn't come from isolated muscles.
It came from connected movement.
Like a wave traveling through the body.
I practiced those motions slowly in the river where the water forced my body to stabilize each segment of movement.
Feet.
Legs.
Hips.
Torso.
Shoulders.
Arms.
Everything working together.
Not fast.
Not flashy.
Just controlled.
Even Jiro started noticing the strange training methods.
One afternoon he found me standing knee-deep in the river performing slow twisting motions with my arms.
He stared for several seconds.
Then shouted from the riverbank.
("What are you doing?!")
(Training.)
He blinked.
("You're just waving your arms!")
(I'm testing force generation.)
That explanation didn't help.
("You're weird.")
Probably.
But a few days later he tried copying the exercises anyway.
Most of them ended with him losing balance and falling into the water.
Still, experimentation was part of the process.
Every day I learned something new.
How shifting my stance changed stability.
How breathing affected endurance.
How tension in the wrong muscles reduced efficiency.
Slowly, piece by piece, my understanding of the body improved.
And every discovery went back into the project board.
Training methods.
Observations.
Results.
All recorded.
Because eventually—
When I discovered Nen—
Every one of those foundations would matter.
For now, though, I closed the wooden notebook and slid it back beneath the floorboard.
Outside, the forest had grown quiet as evening settled over the settlement.
Inside the cabin, Mom prepared dinner while Dad carved another wooden tool beside the hearth.
A peaceful moment.
But my mind was already moving forward.
The river.
The books.
The projects.
Each step brought me closer to the real goal.
Nen.
And when the time finally came to learn it—
I intended to be ready.