When Toji entered the town, he didn't linger on the familiar streets or the usual morning bustle. Fox Town was gradually waking up; shopkeepers were unbolting their doors, wooden carts rattled over the stone roads, and the sea breeze carried the sharp tang of salt and fresh fish.
But Toji wasn't there for the atmosphere. He headed straight for the butcher's shop.
He hoisted the wild boar onto the heavy wooden table, washing his hands with practiced efficiency before getting to work. The knife moved with a steady, clinical grace. He slit the skin first, then began to peel it back, careful not to tear the meat beneath. He cleaned the carcass thoroughly, portioned it, and hung the cuts to rest.
The process wasn't enjoyable, but it was necessary. And for Toji, necessary things were simply done. No extra thought required.
Once finished, he wiped his hands on a rag and headed toward the harbor. The path was one he could walk blindfolded: old wooden planks, fishermen mending nets, and the occasional cry of a seagull over the rhythmic pulse of the waves.
As expected, Old Kolher was there.
"Toji! Over here!" one of the children called out from the dock.
Toji turned and saw Kolher perched at the edge of the pier, a small crowd of kids gathered around him. A fish lay stretched across a wooden board, and Kolher's knife moved with deliberate slowness as he explained the mechanics of the task.
"Listen up," the old man said as Toji approached. "The fish is dead. That's the first rule."
The knife slid gently beneath the scales. "Even in death, treat it with care. Remove the skin slowly. If you rush, you ruin the meat. If you ruin the meat, I'll blame every last one of you."
The blade glided smoothly. "The knife goes under the skin, not through it. This isn't a stabbing contest." He pointed the tip toward the entrails. "Now, the guts. They come out clean. Don't go poking around out of curiosity—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes lifted, locking onto Toji. A look of clear annoyance flickered across his face.
"—because curiosity here just means more work and more questions."
A brief silence settled over the children. Kolher shrugged. "If you do it right, you eat. If you fail, you learn."
He handed out small fish for the kids to practice on, then finally turned his full attention to Toji, his voice heavy with a familiar exhaustion. "What do you want now?"
He knew the boy. Toji never showed up without a reason. In just four years, this child had given him more headaches than his wife had in forty years of marriage—a deeply uncomfortable achievement.
Toji stepped forward, flashing a smile that was far too innocent to be real. "Come on, Grandpa Kolher, don't look at me like that. Don't you love your adorable grandson? I just came to check on you." He gave him a look—the wide-eyed, puppy-dog expression of a harmless child.
Kolher narrowed his eyes. He knew it was an act, yet his internal defenses softened just a fraction. "Stop making that face. It's disturbing coming from a kid with eyes like a dead fish." He sighed. "Why did you have to inherit your father's eyes?"
Toji knew the look. He'd seen his father's picture—the same sharp gaze, the same unsettling coldness. Combined with his mother's jet-black hair, the effect was striking.
"My dear grandpa… could you help me buy something?"
Kolher reached into his pocket without a second thought. "How much do you need?"
Toji held up four fingers. The old man pulled out some bills and handed them over, but Toji didn't move.
Kolher frowned. "You got the money. Now get."
Toji looked at him with feigned confusion. "But I didn't say I wanted money."
A heavy silence followed. "…You little bastard," Kolher muttered. "Then why did you take it?"
Toji just kept the puppy-dog look going. He thought it was cute; in reality, it was just slightly irritating.
Kolher let out a long, weary breath. "Fine. What is it this time?"
Toji reached into his pocket and pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper, smoothing it out on the table. It was a drawing of a dagger, slightly longer than his forearm.
"Grandpa… you're the only one I can ask." Toji's eyes were steady now. "Could you go to Tonka the blacksmith and ask him to make this? Please."
Kolher took the paper, studying the drawing, then looking at Toji, then back at the paper. He sighed again. He knew Tonka didn't like the kid, especially after the "incident" with the broken tools last year.
"Fine," Kolher grumbled.
The moment the word left his mouth, Toji was gone. He vanished instantly, as if he'd never been standing there at all. Kolher stared at the empty spot for a second, shook his head, and turned back to the children.
"You lot… stop cutting that fish like you're taking revenge on it!"
...
(The Next Day)
Morning on Fox Island always began with a strange, heavy quiet. The cool sea breeze wound through the wooden houses, carrying salt and dampness, while the birds gradually took over from the silence.
Inside his room, Toji's eyes snapped open. His body was a clock set for 5:00 AM. He sat up and reached for the small cage on his balcony. Inside, a brown-feathered bird was already stirring. Toji sprinkled a handful of grain into the cage, and the bird immediately began a frantic, loud chirping.
Toji watched it with half-lidded eyes. "Good morning… Asta."
The name wasn't a coincidence. The bird started screaming with the first ray of light and didn't stop until 9:00 AM—exactly like a certain loud-mouthed anime protagonist from his old life.
Toji sighed. "At least you're not shouting about the power of friendship." The bird chirped louder, completely indifferent.
Toji sat on the floor in a lotus position and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, syncing with the quiet of the room. For months, this had been his ritual—trying to force open the Aura Nodes in his body through sheer persistence. It was like pushing against a locked door, a few inches every single day.
An hour and a half later, he opened his eyes. No dramatic explosion of power, but the internal sensation was a fraction clearer. Progress.
He stood, changed quickly, and slipped out the window, jumping silently to the ground. He didn't want to wake his mother or grandmother. Kolher had already left; his heavy footsteps had been a reliable alarm clock thirty minutes prior.
Toji headed for the forest. The air was colder here, the scent of damp earth thick. He started running. First at a steady clip, then accelerating. His feet found the gaps between roots and swerved around low-hanging vines without a break in his stride.
His focus wasn't just strength; it was environmental awareness. He'd pick a random path and try to follow it at full speed without hesitation. Any mistake meant starting over.
He tripped, sighed, and turned back. "Again."
Over the months, he'd grown faster, which only made the training more dangerous. Sometimes he'd even close his eyes for a few seconds, forcing his other senses to take over the navigation.
Sweat slicked his forehead. His breath came in ragged bursts. "Haa… haa…"
He stopped after another round, hands on his knees. He looked at his dirt-stained palms. "It's getting easier."
He looked deeper into the trees, a new thought forming. "Should I start using weights?"
He hesitated. In his old world, people said it stunted growth. But then he thought of Killua Zoldyck, who'd been training with tons of weight since he could walk.
A short silence. Toji shook his head. "…I really shouldn't compare myself to a Zoldyck. That kid grew up with assassins. I grew up with a grandpa who teaches kids how to gut fish. The difference is… subtle."
He smirked. "But weights are still a good idea."
The problem was getting them. Specialized training gear didn't exist on Fox Island. He'd need a major city for that. Then he remembered Hakuro, the baker's son, who was leaving for Yorknew City soon.
"I can ask him to look for a weighted suit," Toji decided.
He returned to the basics. Push-ups. Squats. Thousands of repetitions. Quantity over quality, for now—the Gon and Killua method.
...
Hours later, Toji returned home, his steps heavy and his clothes a mess of dust and forest debris. He stumbled slightly at the threshold, his small body genuinely worn out. If his mother saw him, she'd just think he'd been playing. To her, the forest was a playground, not a training ground.
He ran a hand through his messy hair. "First thing… a bath."
But the scent of warm food hit him first. Fresh bread and savory soup. His stomach let out a loud, protesting growl, and his body moved toward the kitchen on autopilot. The bath was forgotten.
He sat at the table, ready to dive in. Unfortunately, the world had other plans.
"Tooooji! Go wash up before you eat!"
Before he could protest, a light but solid fist rapped against the top of his head. Toji looked up. Azma stood there, a spark of maternal annoyance in her eyes. Toji knew better than to argue with a hungry stomach and an angry mother.
He stood up quietly and headed for the stairs.
Azma watched him go, her stern expression holding until he disappeared. Then, she winced, rubbing her knuckles.
"Damn… what is that brat's head made of?" She paused, then laughed softly to herself.