Day One: Pain
The first lesson began at 4 AM, when most of Whale Island was still asleep.
Killua dragged Gon to the beach, where the tide was low and the sand was hard-packed. No words. Just a gesture: stand there. Gon complied, taking his position, waiting for instruction.
The instruction came in the form of Killua's fist connecting with his jaw.
Gon hit the sand hard, tasting copper. Before he could recover, Killua was on him—a knee to the ribs, an elbow to the spine, a calculated strike to the nerve cluster in his leg bones that made his legs go numb.
"Get up," Killua said, his voice cold. Clinical. The voice of an assassin, not a friend.
Gon struggled to his feet. Killua hit him again. And again. And again. Each strike precise, measured, designed to hurt without causing permanent damage. The kind of beating that taught lessons rather than inflicted trauma.
"You're fighting without Nen," Killua said between strikes. "That means every hit you take is real damage. No aura to cushion it. No enhancement to let you tank attacks. Just flesh and bone and the hope you can take more punishment than the other guy." He swept Gon's legs, sending him crashing down again. "So you need to learn what real pain feels like. What your body can actually endure."
Gon pushed himself up, spitting blood. "I know what pain feels like."
"No." Killua's next strike shattered that illusion—a palm strike to the neck that stopped Gon's breathing, made his vision go white, made every nerve scream. "You know what pain feels like with Nen protecting you. Dulling it. Making it survivable. This—" Another strike. "—this is what humans actually experience. This is what everyone else feels when they get hit."
The beating continued for an hour. By the end, Gon could barely stand. His body was a map of bruises, his breathing shallow, his vision blurred. "Good," Killua said, not a trace of mercy in his voice. "Now you understand the baseline. Tomorrow, I teach you how to hurt back."
Makito was waiting when they returned, his remaining eye assessing Gon's condition with clinical precision. "Can you walk?" "Yes," Gon lied, limping.
"Good. Sit." Makito gestured to a meditation mat he'd set up in the forest clearing. Around them, dozens of strange plants grew—some with teeth, some with eyes, some that moved like they were breathing. "Killua's teaching you physical combat. I'm teaching you tactical warfare."
He produced a small potted plant—innocent looking, with delicate purple flowers. "This is Nightmare Ivy. Its pollen causes vivid hallucinations if inhaled. Not Nen-based, so it works on everyone." He set it down, produced another plant. "This is Screaming Moss. It releases ultrasonic frequencies that shatter eardrums within ten meters." Another plant. "Bloodroot Vine. Its sap causes temporary paralysis on skin contact."
Gon stared at the collection. "You want me to fight with plants?"
"I want you to fight smart," Makito corrected. "Rakshas is stronger than you. Faster. More experienced. Has Nen that violates reality. You cannot win a straight fight." He leaned forward. "But plants don't fight fair. They poison. They trap. They kill slowly while their prey doesn't even realize they're dying. That's how you beat a monster—by becoming something he doesn't expect."
For the next six hours, Makito taught Gon about guerrilla warfare. About environmental advantages. About using terrain and tools and tactics to overcome impossible odds. It wasn't heroic. Wasn't honorable. Was just practical brutality wrapped in botanical knowledge.
By sunset, Gon's head was full of poison profiles and trap configurations and ways to kill that didn't require Nen. "One more thing," Makito said as they finished. "Your Liberation technique—the one that actually hurt Rakshas. What did it feel like when you used it?"
Gon thought back to that moment. To his Nen unsealing. To the eighteen months of compressed power exploding outward. "It felt like... like breaking through a wall. Like I'd been holding my breath underwater for years and finally surfaced."
"And the technique itself?"
"Rock, scissors, paper—all three at once. All my aura compressed into a single point and released simultaneously." Gon's hands clenched. "But it drained me completely. One shot, then my Nen sealed again."
Makito nodded slowly. "Then we need to make that one shot count. If your Nen unseals during the fight—and that's a big if—you'll have one chance to end him. Miss, and he kills you. Simple as that."
The weight of those words settled over Gon like a shroud. One chance. One shot. One opportunity to either save everyone or become another piece in Rakshas's gallery.
"I won't miss," Gon said. Makito's expression was grim. "Everyone says that. Right up until they miss."
Day Two: Precision
Killua woke Gon at 3 AM this time. "Today, you learn to hit back."
The training ground had changed. Killua had set up dozens of targets throughout the forest—some stationary, some mobile, all marked with red paint where vital organs would be.
"When you don't have Nen," Killua explained, "every strike has to count. You can't waste energy on body blows that do nothing. You aim for vitals: eyes, throat, joints, nerve clusters. Places where human body is vulnerable regardless of aura." He demonstrated on the nearest target, his fingers striking with surgical precision. "This is how assassins fight. How I was taught to kill before I even learned Nen."
Gon spent the morning relearning how to punch. Not with enhanced strength or aura-charged fists—but with the biomechanical efficiency of someone who understood exactly how much force was needed to rupture an eyeball, collapse a trachea, dislocate a shoulder.
It felt wrong. Gon had always fought with overwhelming power and straightforward tactics. This was different. This was calculated murder.
"I can see you hesitating," Killua said. "Stop. This isn't about being a good person or fighting honorably. This is about surviving against something that wants to turn you into living art. You think Rakshas will fight fair? Give you chances? Show mercy?"
"No," Gon admitted.
"Then neither can you." Killua moved behind him, adjusting his stance. "This is the version of you that has to exist for three days. The one who'll do anything to win. To survive. To protect people by killing the thing hunting them." His voice softened slightly. "I know it's not who you want to be. But it's who you need to be."
Gon trained until his knuckles bled. Until he could hit vital points on moving targets without conscious thought. Until his body remembered the lessons even if his mind rejected them.
By afternoon, Makito took over again.
"Let's talk about Rakshas's techniques," he said, spreading out diagrams on the ground. "Marionette Entropy—his primary attack. Makes your body consume itself from within. If he touches you with it, you have maybe sixty seconds before organ failure." He pointed to another diagram. "Red String Autopsy—invisible threads that puppet your body. Killua escaped because Gon's aura blast disrupted them, but normally they're permanent until the victim dies."
"How do I avoid them?" Gon asked. "You don't." Makito's answer was blunt. "His reach is too great. His speed is too high. You will get hit. The question is—how do you survive being hit?"
He produced a small vial of dark green liquid. "This is concentrated Eden's Reclamation essence. If you ingest it before the fight, it'll spread carnivorous plant cells throughout your bloodstream. If Rakshas hits you with Marionette Entropy, the plant cells will consume his Red Nen from inside your body. You'll still be injured—badly—but you won't die in sixty seconds."
"And the side effects?"
"The plants will eat your aura too. If your Nen unseals, it'll be weaker. Maybe thirty percent reduced output." Makito met his eye. "But you'll be alive to use it."
Gon took the vial. Looked at the liquid that would poison his own Nen to keep him breathing. Another compromise. Another piece of himself sacrificed for survival.
"I'll take it," he said.
That evening, Alluka approached while Gon was resting. She'd been practicing her Nen manipulation all day, staying clear of the training but always watching.
"Big brother says you're going to fight the bad villain," she said quietly, sitting beside him. "Yeah," Gon admitted. "Are you scared?"
The question caught him off guard. Not because it was unexpected—but because no one else had asked. Killua was too busy teaching him how to survive. Makito was too focused on tactics. Everyone was preparing for the fight but no one had asked how he felt about it.
"Terrified," Gon said honestly. "I'm terrified I'll fail. That my Nen won't unlock. That even if it does, it won't be enough. That I'll end up trapped in one of his galleries, conscious but unable to move or die, forever."
Alluka was quiet for a moment. Then: "Nanika wants to help."
Gon's blood ran cold. Nanika—Alluka's other self, the entity that granted wishes at terrible cost. The power that could heal anything, grant anything, but demanded increasingly dangerous requests in return.
"No," Gon said firmly. "Alluka, no. The cost is too high. You saw what happened last time. The requests get worse and worse. I won't risk you or anyone else for—"
"But you'll risk yourself?" Alluka's eyes were wet. "You'll go fight that monster alone, maybe die, maybe worse than die, and that's okay? But letting Nanika help isn't?"
She was right. The hypocrisy was obvious. But Gon couldn't—wouldn't—let anyone else pay the price for his battle. "I'm sorry," he said. "But this is something I have to do myself."
Alluka hugged him then. Tight. Desperate. "Then you have to win. You have to come back. Because big brother needs you. And I need you. And everyone on this island needs you." She pulled back, tears streaming. "So don't you dare lose."
Gon hugged her back, making a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
Day Three: Resolve
The final day began with Killua waking Gon at 2 AM. "No more training," he said. "Today, you rest. Recover. Prepare mentally."
But Gon couldn't rest. His body ached from two days of brutal conditioning. His mind raced with tactics and techniques and the thousand ways this could go wrong. So he sat in the forest, watching the stars, trying to find peace before the storm.
Makito found him there at dawn. "I want to come with you," the Botanical Hunter said. "Hide nearby. Intervene if things go bad." "He said to come alone."
"Since when do you listen to monsters?" "Since he threatened to massacre entire islands if I don't." Gon looked at him. "This has to be me. Just me. That's the rule."
Makito was quiet for a long moment. Then he placed a small seed in Gon's hand. "If you're dying—if you know you can't win—crush this. It'll release a pollen cloud that knocks out everything in a hundred-meter radius. You included. Maybe you'll wake up before he turns you into art. Maybe not. But it's better than conscious preservation."
Gon pocketed the seed. A suicide option. A final mercy if everything went wrong. "Thank you," he said. "For everything. For teaching me. For trusting me. And I know the seed will work on him to. After all, he's human like us. Not some chimera."
"Don't thank me yet," Makito said. "Thank me when you come back alive." Killua appeared as the sun rose fully. "It's time," he said.
They walked to the northern mountain together, not speaking, just being present. At the base, where the trail to the temple ruins began, Killua stopped.
"This is as far as I go," he said. Then, quieter: "Gon, if your Nen doesn't unseal—if you can't win—run. I don't care about his threats. I don't care about the islands. You run, and we'll figure out another way."
"There is no other way," Gon said. "This is it. This is the only chance to end him before he kills hundreds more."
"Then make it count." Killua pulled him into a brief, fierce hug. "You're the strongest person I know. Not because of Nen. Not because of power. Because you refuse to give up. Even when you should. Even when it's impossible." He pulled back. "So don't start giving up now."
Gon nodded, not trusting his voice. He began the climb alone.
The path to the temple ruins wound through dense forest, across ancient stone steps worn smooth by centuries. With each step, Gon felt the pressure increasing. Not physical. Psychological. The weight of what waited at the top.
The ruins came into view an hour later.
Old stone pillars stood like broken teeth against the sky. Moss-covered walls that had once been grand now crumbled into earth. And in the center, sitting peacefully on a raised platform, was Rakshas.
He looked different. Healed, mostly—his burns faded to scars, his broken ribs apparently mended. The crimson robes were new, unstained. But his eyes were the same. That blood-red gaze that saw suffering as art.
"You came," Rakshas said, almost surprised. "You actually came alone. I half expected the assassin to follow. Or the plant manipulator to set traps. But no—just you." He stood, smiling. "Just the trash pile who thinks he can be a hero."
"I'm not a hero," Gon said, stepping into the ruins. "I'm just someone who protects his friends. And you're threatening them. So I'm ending you. Today. Now."
Rakshas laughed—that quiet, terrible laugh. "Confident. I like that. Let's see if your conviction survives contact with reality."
His aura erupted. Red Nen filled the ruins, thick and oppressive and wrong. It pressed down on Gon like a physical weight, making his bones creak, his vision blur.
And Gon, without Nen to protect him, without enhancement to resist, felt every ounce of that malicious pressure trying to crush him into the ground. But he didn't fall.
He took a step forward. Then another. Moving through that hostile aura like walking through deep water, every movement an act of will.
"Interesting," Rakshas murmured. "No protection. No defense. Just willpower. You're more fascinating than I thought." His smile widened. "Let's begin the art. Let's see what color your despair is."
The fight began with Rakshas moving—faster than Gon could track, his hand reaching for Gon's throat, Red Nen crackling with Marionette Entropy ready to make Gon's body devour itself.
Gon dodged—barely, using every lesson Killua had beaten into him—and countered with a strike to Rakshas's extended wrist. Precise. Targeted. Aiming for the nerve cluster that would temporarily paralyze the hand.
His fist connected. Rakshas's hand spasmed, the Marionette Entropy dispersing.
"Oh," Rakshas said, genuine surprise in his voice. "Someone taught you how to fight like an assassin. Clever." They circled each other. Predator and prey, each waiting for an opening. Then Rakshas attacked again—and the real battle began.
TO BE CONTINUED... [Next Episode: "The Art of Suffering"]