Crack!
A crisp, mechanical sound, like a latch disengaging, echoed in the quiet room.
The pharmaceutical table, which had been shimmering with aura and spinning its scales in a blur, shuddered to a perfect stop. Simultaneously, a small glass vial stored in its base ejected with a soft pop.
Thud.
Kevin, who had been forced to stand motionless throughout the process, collapsed onto the floorboards.
"Hah... hah..."
He gasped for air, his chest heaving. "This... is even more exhausting than sparring with Mori," he wheezed, wiping a torrent of sweat from his brow. The single hour had left him drenched as if he'd run a marathon. During the process, his aura had been siphoned away in a continuous, draining stream. The initial drain was subtle, but as his stamina and latent aura dwindled, the draw became a palpable, aching pull. It wasn't the acute fatigue of combat; it was a deep, hollowing sense of depletion, keenly felt even in absolute stillness. The physical sensation was uniquely grueling.
Groaning, he forced himself up. He had to retrieve the potion first. As long as the materialized table remained, it would continue to leech his energy.
The moment his fingers closed around the cool glass vial, the entire apparatus dissolved into motes of fading light.
Kevin slumped into a nearby chair, utterly spent, and weakly shook the potion. Through the clear glass, he saw a viscous, orange-red liquid that sloshed with a molten, fiery glow.
"At least... after all that training, I can finally produce the theoretical potion," he mumbled.
That was the truth. While the formula for this "Strength Potion" was etched into his memory, he had never actually seen a finished sample. The ability itself had a built-in limitation.
In simple terms: the "power" fed into the process was his visible aura, supplied while he maintained a forced state of Zetsu. The greater his visible aura output, the stronger the resulting potion and the shorter the production time. The total "energy" consumed, however, was drawn from his latent aura reservoir.
And if the conditions weren't met? If his latent aura ran dry before the process completed?
The answer was a catastrophic "power outage." The entire operation would halt, all invested aura would be wasted, and the precious materials would be ruined. The stronger the intended potion, the more devastating—and expensive—a failure could be. This was a harsh lesson he'd learned during his earlier, aborted experiments. Now, with a stronger foundation and deeper understanding, he could navigate the costs.
He looked at the glowing vial. "Let's just call it the Strength Potion." All concoctions, whether beneficial or toxic, shared the same limitation: a fifteen-minute duration. "So that's why it's called 'A Moment of Dream.' Fitting."
He stored the vial carefully, turned off the light, and fell onto his bed. In the enveloping darkness, exhaustion weighed on his limbs, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind was racing.
"So... what about my own Nen ability?"
He couldn't help but ask the question aloud. As an Enhancer, he couldn't envision anything overly intricate. Fancy, complex abilities didn't suit the straightforward, brute-force nature of his type. For the archetype with the most raw offensive potential, simplicity was the ultimate sophistication.
''Construct it from your initial impulse. From your most fundamental idea."
Bisky's advice echoed in his mind. But the question remained: How?
His initial impulse was clear: he wanted an ability that synergized with *A Moment of Dream*, leveraged his preternatural aura control, and utilized the 80% efficiency he had in his non-primary types.
But he also had to design around a critical flaw: his body's terrible learning ability. There was no physical clumsiness—his mind was sharp, his theoretical grasp excellent—but his body's capacity to acquire and automate new physical skills was abysmal. And as an Enhancer, any ability he created would either enhance an object or a specific trait of his own.
Enhance 'A Moment of Dream'?
The idea surfaced and was instantly dismissed. That would be a niche application, wasting his frontal assault potential. It wouldn't incorporate his fluid aura manipulation or leverage his strong secondary affinities. It felt like a dead end.
Lying in the dark, the answer seemed just as elusive as sleep. The path to creating something that was uniquely, powerfully his—something that turned his collection of strange advantages into a coherent whole—remained shrouded. The first step was Heaven's Arena. Perhaps the relentless, repetitive combat there would shake something loose, not just in his muscles, but in his understanding of what he needed to become.
And to be honest, the more he understood Nen, the more he realized that *A Moment of Dream*, for all its wonder, was less overwhelmingly powerful than he'd first imagined. It was laden with restrictions, a definitive support-type ability.
He was greedy. He wanted it all.
His own, true Nen ability had to be the unifying link, the connector that wove his three distinct "talents"—the Post-Mortem Nen alchemy, his instinctive aura mastery, and his high secondary-type efficiencies—into a single, cohesive force. Only by making these facets complementary could he forge true, adaptable power.
But how?
Sleepiness finally overpowered the whirl of his thoughts.
***
The next day. Heaven's Arena, 145th Floor, B Block Auditorium.
Kevin sat in the stands, a spectator ticket in hand. He'd heard today's match was a major draw, featuring a wildly popular contestant, and had barely snagged a seat. A part of him was genuinely curious. In his old world, he'd never attended a live combat sport event, let alone one where the fights could be—and often were—lethal.
The arena thrummed with palpable energy, packed to the rafters. A passionate announcer's voice boomed through the sound system.
"Ladies and gentlemen! The moment you've all been waiting for is HERE! Let's welcome our combatants!"
Deafening cheers erupted, the crowd roaring the fighters' epithets. One name clearly commanded more fervor, drawing about 80% of the shouts—a significant portion of them from female fans. From his rough visual sweep, the Heaven's Arena audience was predominantly male, making this standout popularity even more notable.
"First, let's welcome the rising star from the Toji Dojo, at just sixteen years old—'Torrent'—Kitagawa!"
Polite, somewhat tepid applause rippled through the crowd. A young man in a sky-blue martial arts uniform strode into the ring. *Young,* Kevin noted. *Stance suggests a leg-focused style.*
"And his opponent…" the announcer's voice swelled with drama, "at only SIX YEARS OLD, having reached the 140th floor in just two months… the young prodigy from the legendary Zoldyck Family… 'White Cat'—KILLUA ZOLDYCK!!!"
The arena exploded. The roar was thunderous, mingled with waves of enthusiastic screams. Kevin winced, rubbing his ears. But his greater shock was the number he'd just heard.
Six years old?
Is that right?
Amidst his stunned disbelief, a boy walked into the ring. A shock of unruly white hair framed a face that was almost comically adorable, currently twisted into a scowl. The kid seemed to be gritting his teeth, shouting something up at the stands that was lost in the din.
Kevin's eyes narrowed, his Nen-trained perception kicking in. To his senses, the boy registered as an ordinary person—no, not ordinary, his physical presence was sharp, disciplined, intense. But he was definitely not a Nen user.
He's not a Nen user?
This realization shocked Kevin more than the child's age. It was a stark reminder to discard his old-world assumptions entirely. This was a different reality, where a six-year-old could be a lethal attraction in a towering death-sport arena.
Down in the ring, Killua was fuming. "White Cat? It should at least be White Wolf! Or Panther!" he muttered, glaring at the crowd. The cutesy title utterly clashed with the deadly aura he knew he projected.
He leapt onto the raised platform with effortless grace. His opponent, Kitagawa, was already in a ready stance, his expression serious, devoid of any hint of condescension. He wasn't foolish enough to underestimate a Zoldyck, regardless of age.
Kevin leaned forward, his analytical mind fully engaged, watching the two fighters size each other up. This was the world he was in. This was the level of physical mastery that existed before Nen even entered the picture. His quest for a personal ability suddenly felt even more urgent, and the path ahead, watching the poised six-year-old assassin, more clearly defined.
Patreon Seasay