The next few weeks teach him three simple things:
The porridge is always bad, but at least it's predictable.
His new body does get stronger if he keeps pushing it a bit every day.
The city outside the fence is bigger than it looks from the yard.
He wakes to the usual sounds: coughing, feet shuffling, a baby complaining like the world personally offended it. Weak light comes through thin curtains and makes the cracks in the ceiling stand out.
His muscles ache, but it's the good kind now. Less "everything is broken," more "you overdid it, genius."
He swings his legs off the bed and stands.
No wobble.
That still feels like victory.
Daro watches him from the next mattress, wrapped in his blanket like a cape.
"You don't fall over anymore," Daro says.
"Day just started," Ryu says. "There's still time."
They line up with the others. Bowls are filled. The porridge is as thin and tasteless as always, but his hands don't shake when he eats now.
He listens while the adults talk.
A helper leans toward the nun and complains quietly.
"…more mouths, less donations…""…city raised fees again…""…Association office says they don't handle that kind of thing…"
Ryu files it away.
The Hunter Association doesn't care about orphanage budgets. Of course they don't. Hunters are for dangerous missions and special jobs, not fixing local funding issues.
After breakfast, the nun starts assigning chores.
"Ryu," she calls. "You're going to town today. Hands steady, legs working. No excuses."
He gives her a neutral look. "Wouldn't dare."
She shoves a worn canvas bag into his hands.
"Take this to Toma's shop," she says. "He'll give you a sack in return. You bring it straight back. No wandering."
"Understood," Ryu says.
Near the door, while they're putting on shoes, Daro leans in.
"Toma's the one with the hard bread," Daro mutters. "If you see a piece that doesn't look like a brick, grab it."
Ryu snorts. "I'll see what I can steal with my eyes."
"Not funny."
"A little funny."
The nun herds three of them outside: Ryu, an older girl, and a stocky boy who looks like he was born to carry things. They walk up the street together. Halfway up the slope, she stops.
"I'm going to the market," she says, pointing them down a side street. "You three go to Toma's and come back the same way. Straight there, straight back. If anyone disappears, I will find you, and you will wish I hadn't."
"Yes, Sister," the other two say.
Ryu takes note: threat radius high, search ability probably underrated.
With the fence behind him, the city looks different.
The road from the orphanage joins a wider street that curves gently uphill. The higher they go, the more crowded it gets. Buildings rise closer together. Some are old stone, patched in places, with small windows. Others are newer, flat-fronted, with painted signs and big glass panes.
People move with purpose. Workers in worn jackets. Office types in cleaner coats. A few uniforms he can't identify. It's not glamorous, but it feels… busy. Alive.
He lets his gaze float over everything without staring too long.
Shop signs. Street names on metal plates. A pharmacy. A butcher. A pawn shop that looks like it eats hope for breakfast. A small electronics place with an ancient TV in the window showing fuzzy news.
Three kids with a bag don't get a second look.
Good.
Toma's shop is narrow and smells like flour, old wood, and disappointment. Shelves hold bread in different stages of death. Some are fresh, some could double as weapons.
A thick man with a mustache stands behind the counter, counting coins like they insulted him.
The older girl handles it.
"We're from the orphanage," she says. "Sister sent this."
She hands over an envelope. Toma opens it, scans the paper, and his face tightens.
"Prices went up," he says.
"They always go up," she answers. Her voice is flat. This is clearly not their first version of this conversation.
He stares at her for a moment, then huffs and disappears into the back. When he returns, he drops a sack onto the counter. It hits with a heavy thud.
Bread. The dangerous kind.
Ryu steps forward and lifts it. It pulls at his arms, but he manages without stumbling.
Better than a few weeks ago.
Toma's eyes flick to him. There's no kindness there. Just quick calculation: age, strength, future use. Whatever he concludes, he's not impressed. He looks away.
They leave.
On the way back, Ryu shifts the sack on his shoulder and "accidentally" steers them down a slightly different street that cuts across the slope.
The older girl notices.
"This isn't the usual way," she says.
"Less crowded," he says. "Easier to carry."
She hesitates, then nods. "Fine. If we're late, you explain."
Worth it.
The side street opens onto a small square. In the center stands a statue of some important dead guy pointing at pigeons. Ryu doesn't care about him.
What he cares about is the building on one side of the square.
It's squat, two stories, with frosted windows and a solid door. Above the door hangs a metal plaque.
The Hunter Association emblem.
Smaller than he imagined. No giant hall. No banners. Just an office.
So that's where they sit, he thinks. Paperwork and licenses, not dramatic entrances.
The door opens.
A man steps out.
He looks… normal. Average height, average build. Dark coat. Hair tied back. Cigarette between two fingers. No glowing eyes, no weird clothes, nothing that screams "superhuman."
If Ryu didn't know the symbol above the door, he'd assume civil servant or mid-level bureaucrat.
The man takes a drag, then lets the smoke out slowly. His eyes move over the square, not rushed, not bored, just… checking. Noticing.
For a moment, Ryu feels something tighten in his chest. Not pain. More like a small, sharp pressure, as if the air got heavier for a heartbeat.
Nen? Killing intent? Or just his own nerves reacting?
He keeps his face calm and his eyes casual.
The man's gaze slides over him, over the bread sack, over the other kids. No special interest. He looks at everything the same way.
Then he flicks the cigarette to the side, crushes it with his heel, and walks uphill.
No one screams "Hunter!" No one runs over to shake his hand. A couple of people glance at the emblem above the door and then go back to their day.
Hunters are unusual here. But not miracles.
"Stop staring," the older girl mutters. "You're going to drop the food."
Ryu adjusts his grip. "I can stare and carry."
"You can barely carry," she says.
He shuts up and walks.
Back at the orphanage, the nun checks the sack like it might have changed weight on the way.
"No problems?" she asks.
"None," the girl says.
Ryu says nothing about the office or the man in the coat. There's no box on any form that says: "felt something weird when looking at a possible Nen user."
The rest of the day is simple.
He hauls water. He sweeps. He helps stack the bread. His arms complain, but they don't fail.
In the evening, his muscles burn in a steady, almost satisfying way.
That night, lying in his narrow bed, he stares up into the dark and replays the image of the man leaving the Association office.
That was probably a Hunter, he thinks. Or at least staff.
He wishes he had old-world tools: pause, rewind, zoom. Slow motion. Freeze on the way the man shifted his weight, the way his eyes moved, any sign of something… extra.
Here, he only has memory.
Did I really feel something?Or am I just imagining things because I know Nen exists?
There's no answer.
Not yet.
He takes a slow breath and tries the same simple focus exercise he's been doing: feel the blanket on his body, the rough mattress under him, the cool air on his face, the way his chest rises and falls.
Still no aura. No strange pressure. No new sense unlocking.
But he stays focused longer before his thoughts wander.
It's almost nothing.
Still, it's more than yesterday.
He'll take it.