The next few weeks teach him three things.
First: the porridge is bad in a consistent, almost comforting way.
Second: this body adapts, slowly, if he keeps pushing it just enough.
Third: the city outside the fence is much bigger than it looks from the yard.
He wakes up to the usual soundtrack: coughing, shuffling feet, a baby complaining about existence. Morning light slips through thin curtains and paints the cracks in the ceiling pale gray.
His muscles ache, but it's the good kind now. Less "I am dying," more "you did too much yesterday, idiot."
He swings his legs over the bed and stands. No wobble this time.
Progress.
Daro watches him from the next mattress, blanket around his shoulders like a cape. "You don't fall over anymore," he says.
"Give it time," Ryu answers. "The day just started."
They line up. Bowls are filled. The porridge is just as watery as yesterday, but he doesn't have to fight his hands to keep them steady. He eats, listens.
A woman helping the nun complains quietly to another adult.
"…more mouths, less donations…"
"…city raised fees again…"
"…Association office says they don't handle that kind of thing…"
Ryu files it away. The Association doesn't care about orphanage budgets. Not surprising. Hunters are tools, not social workers.
After breakfast, chores get assigned.
"Ryu," the nun calls. "You're going to town today. Hands are steady, legs work. No excuses."
He gives her a bland look. "I wouldn't dream of it."
She thrusts a worn canvas bag at him. "Take this to Toma's shop and bring back what he gives you. Straight there, straight back."
"Understood," he says.
Daro leans over as they're putting on shoes near the door. "Toma gives out the hard bread," he mutters. "If you see any that doesn't look like a weapon, grab it."
Ryu snorts. "I'll see what I can steal with my eyes."
"Not funny."
"A little funny."
The nun marches three of them into the street: Ryu, an older girl, and a boy with arms like he was born carrying things. She peels off toward the market halfway up the slope, leaving them pointed at a side street.
"Straight there and back," she repeats. "If any of you vanish, I will personally drag you from wherever you hide and you will wish you hadn't."
"Yes, Sister," the others say.
Ryu files away threat radius: unknown, likely large and follows.
The city reveals itself better without the fence in the way. The road outside the orphanage joins a wider street that curves gently upward. The higher they go, the tighter the buildings pack together. Some are obviously old: stone, patched sections, narrow windows. Others are newer, with flat fronts, glass displays and painted signs trying too hard.
People move with purpose. Workers in worn jackets. Office types in nicer coats. A couple of uniforms he doesn't recognize. It's not glamorous, but it's alive.
He lets his eyes skim details without lingering.
Shop names. Street names on iron plates at corners. A pharmacy. A butcher. A pawn shop with cracked windows and a hungry atmosphere. An electronics store with a small, ancient TV in the window showing static and occasional news.
No one looks twice at three kids with a bag. Good.
Toma's shop turns out to be a narrow place that smells like flour, old wood and mild disappointment. Shelves of bread, some fresh, some clearly losing the battle with time. Behind the counter, a man with a stomach and a mustache counts coins like they personally insulted him.
The older girl does the talking. Ryu watches.
"We're from the orphanage," she says. "Sister sent this."
Toma grunts, takes the envelope she offers, and opens it. His eyes scan the paper inside. His mouth tightens a little.
"Prices went up," he says.
"They always go up," the girl answers in a flat tone that says this is a recurring argument.
He stares at her for a second, then disappears into the back. He returns with a sack and drops it on the counter. The sound says "heavy" and "dense." Weapon-grade bread confirmed.
Ryu steps forward and lifts it. It drags at his arms but doesn't yank him down like it would have a few weeks ago.
The man's eyes flick to him. There's no warmth there. Just a quick assessment: weight, effort, potential future customer or future problem. He must not like the numbers, because he looks away.
They leave.
On the way back, Ryu adjusts his grip and takes the long way down a side street "by accident." The girl notices.
"That's not the usual route," she says.
"Less crowded," he says. "Easier to carry."
She considers it, shrugs. "Fine. If we're late, you're explaining."
Worth it.
This street cuts across the slope and opens onto a small square. There's a statue in the middle: some historical figure he doesn't care about yet, arm outstretched like he's blessing pigeons. On one side of the square stands a squat, two-story building with frosted windows.
Above the door: a metal plaque with the Association emblem.
Smaller than he imagined. No grand hall. Just an office.
A man in a dark coat pushes the door open from the inside and steps out. He looks… normal. Average height, average build, hair tied back, cigarette in one hand. No dramatic aura, no glowing eyes, no "I am a main character" sign.
If Ryu didn't know what that symbol above the door meant, he'd assume minor civil servant.
The man exhales smoke, eyes scanning the square with the flat, detached attention of someone used to measuring threats before they stand up. For half a heartbeat, Ryu feels something pinch at his chest. Not like being hit, more like a brief tightening, a shift in the air.
Aura? Killing intent? Or just nerves?
He checks his face. Neutral, maybe slightly bored. Good.
The man's gaze skims over him and the sack of bread, lingers no longer than it does on anyone else. Then he flicks his cigarette to the side, crushes it under his heel and walks off uphill.
No one in the square gasps or points. Hunters are novelty here, but not miracles.
"Stop staring," the older girl mutters. "You'll drop the food."
Ryu shifts his grip. "Multitasking," he says.
She rolls her eyes and moves on. He follows.
Back at the orphanage, the nun inspects the sack and then their faces. "No problems?"
"None," the girl answers.
Ryu doesn't mention the Hunter or the weird tightness in his chest. There's no form to file that under.
The rest of the day slides into routine: dishes, sweeping, carrying water. By evening, his arms ache pleasantly and his calves burn a little. Improvement is slow, but it's there.
That night he lies in bed, muscles humming, mind replaying the square.
That man was a Hunter, he thinks. Not a legend. Not a monster. Just… there.
He wishes, briefly, for his old world's ability to rewind and zoom in. Check posture, breathing, microexpressions. See if there was a flare in the air no one else noticed.
Here, all he has is memory.
Did I really feel anything?
Or am I just seeing ghosts because I know Nen exists?
There's no answer. Not yet.
He closes his eyes and lets his breathing settle. He tries again with the basic awareness exercise: feel the weight of the blanket, the scratch of the mattress, the air moving over his face.
Still nothing like aura. But his focus lasts longer before his mind drifts.
It's not much.
But it's a start.