After the realization about the clan, my perspective on everything changed.
Until now I had mostly been observing—learning language, understanding people, adapting to this body. But once the pieces started connecting in my mind, observation alone didn't feel sufficient anymore.
If my memory was correct, then somewhere in the future the Phantom Troupe would appear and wipe out this entire clan.
The Kurta massacre.
In the story it happened suddenly. No warning. No preparation.
Which meant if I wanted to change anything… I couldn't waste time.
But charging forward blindly wasn't an option either.
Strength without knowledge was just recklessness.
So the first thing I decided to pursue wasn't power.
It was understanding.
My opportunities began inside the cabin.
Mom had always worked with herbs. When I was younger I had simply watched her grind leaves and roots into powders or boil them into bitter-smelling liquids. At the time it was just another part of daily life.
Now I started paying closer attention.
One afternoon I sat beside her while she sorted through several bundles of dried plants.
("Mom.")
She glanced down at me.
("Yes?")
I picked up one of the leaves and examined it carefully.
("What is this?")
She smiled slightly.
("Curious again?")
I nodded.
She took the leaf gently from my hand.
("This helps with fever,") she explained. ("When someone is sick, we boil it in water.")
That was exactly the kind of information I wanted.
Over the next weeks I began asking questions whenever she worked with herbs.
Some reduced pain.
Some helped wounds heal faster.
Others calmed fevers or stomach problems.
At first Mom seemed amused by my curiosity.
But eventually she began explaining things more carefully.
("This root stops bleeding.")
("These leaves reduce swelling.")
("Too much of this plant can make someone very sick.")
The information fascinated me.
Medicine meant understanding the human body. And understanding the human body meant understanding weakness, recovery, and limits.
All things that would eventually matter in combat.
While Mom taught me about herbs, Dad unknowingly helped with another part of my education.
The human body in motion.
Whenever he worked outside the cabin, I followed him.
Not to help—at my age that wasn't possible yet—but to watch.
He lifted heavy logs, chopped wood, and carried tools across uneven ground without losing balance. Every movement was efficient.
No wasted effort.
The same was true for the hunters.
When they returned from the forest, their bodies moved with a kind of quiet control.
Balance.
Coordination.
Endurance.
They weren't bodybuilders.
They were functional.
And that observation changed how I approached training.
In my previous life, whenever people talked about strength, the first thing that came to mind was lifting weights.
But here I didn't even know the fundamentals of this body yet.
Jumping straight into strength training would be pointless.
Before strength came something more important.
Control.
So I started small.
Very small.
Early each morning, before most of the settlement woke up, I stepped outside and practiced simple movements.
Stretching first.
Slow movements to loosen muscles and joints.
My body was still young and flexible, but flexibility only mattered if it was controlled.
After stretching came balance.
At first it was simple things—standing on one foot while counting slowly in my head.
Then walking along fallen logs without falling.
Then moving across uneven rocks without losing stability.
It looked like children's play.
But the effect was immediate.
Within weeks my footing became steadier.
After that I began experimenting with basic bodyweight exercises.
Nothing extreme.
Simple calisthenics.
Squatting.
Pushing my body up from the ground.
Hanging from low branches to strengthen my grip.
At first my arms trembled after only a few repetitions.
But the improvement came quickly.
Children's bodies adapted fast.
The key was consistency.
Every day.
A little more movement.
A little more control.
Sometimes Jiro noticed.
One morning he found me balancing on a fallen log near the edge of the clearing.
He stared at me for several seconds.
("What are you doing?")
("Training.")
He blinked.
("Training for what?")
I stepped down from the log.
("To get stronger.")
Jiro frowned.
("Why not just run?")
That seemed to be his solution to most things.
I shrugged.
("Running is good.")
("Then why stand on a log?")
("Balance.")
He stared at the log.
Then at me.
Then shrugged and climbed onto it himself.
Three seconds later he slipped and nearly fell.
I caught his arm before he hit the ground.
He looked at me with mild surprise.
("Okay,") he admitted. ("Maybe balance is useful.")
We practiced together after that.
Running.
Climbing trees.
Balancing across logs.
Jumping over roots and rocks.
Simple things.
But simple things built foundations.
And foundations mattered.
Because eventually—when the time came to learn Nen—
The body would need to handle far more than simple exercises.
As the weeks passed, I continued my routine.
Morning training.
Daytime observation.
Evening questions with Mom and Dad.
Slowly, piece by piece, I built something far more valuable than raw strength.
A base.
A body that moved well.
A mind that understood what it was doing.
And somewhere beyond the forest…
A future that I intended to be ready for.