The crisp morning air carried the scent of damp earth and pine as Kevin examined the perfectly stamped hexagons on the tree stump. His knuckles were unmarked, the Nen having taken the force and transformed it, distributing the impact across the geometric shape. It was a quiet victory, hard-won and deeply understood.
He wiped his hands on his trousers, his mind organizing the data of his own progress with clinical precision. Three potions left, he thought, not with worry, but with the acknowledgment of a resource that needed replenishing. The wilderness around him was vast; the materials were out there. It was simply a matter of time and directed effort.
His categorization of the potion effects felt solid, a useful framework for his unique learning path. The first type—the buff states—were like building a muscle. You could always lift a little more, run a little faster. The progress was incremental, visible, comforting in its linearity.
The second type, the Transformation imparting type, was different. It was binary. It was like learning a language; you couldn't "sort of" understand a word. You either knew its meaning and could use it, or you didn't. That 99% was a state of profound ignorance. The hexagon had been a vocabulary word for his aura, and now, after relentless repetition and focused simulation, it was fluent. It was his.
A rustle in the mist-shrouded treeline caught his attention. It wasn't the alarmed scatter of a small creature, but something heavier, deliberate. Kevin relaxed his stance, letting his En bleed out just a few meters—a gentle, exploratory pulse.
From the fog, the hulking form of Buhara emerged, looking like a benevolent mountain. He held a large, steaming clay cup in each hand.
"I thought I sensed concentrated frustration giving way to satisfaction over here," Buhara said, his voice a soft rumble. "Menchi is in the vault, performing what she calls a 'preliminary organoleptic assessment' on the antelope. She threatened to tie me to a chair if I hovered. I brought tea."
Kevin accepted the warm cup with a nod of thanks. The aroma was earthy and complex. "She seems... intensely focused."
"An artist at work," Buhara agreed, sipping his own tea. "Your training is different, but the focus is similar. You are imparting a concept to your aura. A very... structural concept." His eyes, small and bright in his broad face, flicked to the hexagonal stamps on the stump. "Transmutation."
"Trying to," Kevin admitted. "It's a slow process of convincing my Nen to believe it is that shape."
"A profound way to put it." Buhara nodded slowly. "For us, we must convince our Nen to become the perfect heat, the most precise edge, to tease out and protect the essence of an ingredient's flavor. It is still a form of Transmutation, but our desired outcome is on a plate, not a battlefield." He took another contemplative sip. "The reserve is a treasure trove for our craft. But it is also a dangerous place. That antelope did not get its iron hoof from grazing in a peaceful meadow. Are you prepared for what else lives in those deep woods, Kevin?"
It was a casual question with considerable weight. Kevin thought of the lurking presences he sometimes felt during solo collection trips, the things that watched from shadows too deep even for the midday sun. He thought of the hexagon, now an instinctual defense.
"I'm learning to be," Kevin said, his gaze turning toward the wilderness that stretched beyond the clearing, vast and silent under the lifting fog. "One shape at a time."
The ride back to the main compound was a short but lively journey. Kevin learned that the Gourmet Hunters, Menchi and Buhara, had been officially contracted by the reserve's management. Their mission: to create a comprehensive, gourmet-grade catalog of the reserve's unique flora and fauna, assessing not just ecological value but culinary potential.
"Most people see a Thornback Lizard and think 'dangerous pest,'" Menchi explained, leaning between the front seats with energetic zeal. "But when prepared correctly—removing the poison sacs with surgical precision, flash-searing the hide to crisp the thorns into a seasoning—its tail meat has a delicate, nutty sweetness unparalleled by any shellfish!"
Buhara nodded, his large head brushing the jeep's canvas roof. "It is about perspective. Our work bridges conservation and cuisine. If people understand the value on their plate, they are more inclined to protect the ecosystem that produces it."
Begel navigated toward the specialized culinary lab, a recent addition to the research base. "Your timing is excellent. The Iron-Hoofed Antelope you're here for? We've just completed the non-invasive tracking phase. A small sample for your analysis has been prepared."
Menchi's eyes gleamed. "Excellent. Let's get to work. Buhara, prep the sensor suite. I want a full spectral analysis of its Nen residue." She was out of the jeep almost before it stopped, a whirlwind of focused intent.
Buhara offered Kevin and Begel another gentle smile. "Her enthusiasm is a force of nature. Thank you for the escort." He then moved with a surprising, silent grace toward the lab, following his partner.
As the jeep's engine quieted, Kevin watched them go. The binary nature of his own Nen training—the "know it or don't" of the hexagon—seemed worlds apart from their nuanced, sensory-driven craft. Yet, he recognized the same underlying principle: absolute mastery through relentless, specific focus.
"Interesting pair, aren't they?" Begel remarked, lighting a cigarette. "Top of their field. Having them here will pull in more funding and attention than a dozen academic papers."
Kevin nodded, his mind already turning. Gourmet Hunters dealt with essence, with transformation of raw material into something greater. His potions were not so different. He looked at his hands, imagining his Nen not just as a hexagon, but taking on other properties—other flavors, so to speak. The wilderness, and the experts now walking into it, seemed full of new recipes to learn.
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