The forest beyond the testing grounds was quieter than it should have been.
That was Tonpa's first thought as he crossed into it.
Not silent. Never silent. There were insects high in the branches, leaves shifting in the occasional wind, distant movement deeper among the trees. But after the tunnel, after the swamp, after Hisoka's voice sliding through the fog like a knife, this quiet felt different.
It was waiting.
Tonpa adjusted his breathing as best he could and immediately gave up on the idea of feeling normal.
His body was finished.
Not dramatically. Not heroically.
Just honestly.
His legs still ached from the first phase. His calves had tightened into stubborn knots. His lower back throbbed whenever he stepped on uneven ground. Even his arms felt heavier than usual, as if carrying their own weight had become exhausting somewhere around the wetlands and never stopped.
And now, apparently, he was expected to hunt giant armored boars.
He stared into the trees with the expression of a man personally betrayed by nature.
"No," he muttered. "Absolutely not."
A few candidates nearby glanced at him, then kept moving. Most were too exhausted to care what Tonpa said to himself.
Ahead, examinees spread through the forest in loose waves. Some rushed forward as though speed alone would solve the problem. Others slowed to scan the terrain more carefully. A few had already started climbing rocks or fallen trunks to get a better view.
Gon and Killua disappeared into the trees almost immediately.
Tonpa noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He also made a point of not following them.
That would have been the easy choice. The cowardly smart choice, maybe. Shadow the talented kids. Stay close enough to benefit from their instincts. Let them find the danger first.
But easy did not mean safe.
Following Gon too closely would make him noticeable. Following Killua too closely would make him suspicious. And at this point, Tonpa had gathered enough dangerous attention for one day.
So he went left.
Not because it looked promising.
Because it looked less crowded.
The forest floor dipped beneath his boots and rose again in ridges crowded with roots and old leaves. The air smelled of bark, damp soil, animal musk, and the stale remains of old burns from previous cooking fires. Somewhere farther ahead, a low grunting sound rolled through the trees and made half the candidates nearby go still.
There they were.
The Great Stamp.
Tonpa stopped beside a broad tree trunk and leaned against it for a second, pretending to study the ground while actually fighting the urge to close his eyes and sleep standing up.
In the anime, this part had been almost funny.
People ran around.
The pigs were huge.
Candidates got flattened.
Then the trick was explained.
Quick. Clean. Entertaining.
From inside the forest, it felt less like comedy and more like industrial slaughter waiting for volunteers.
A crash echoed somewhere to his right.
Then shouting.
Then something large hit the ground hard enough to shake leaves loose overhead.
Tonpa winced.
"Right," he muttered. "That'll be someone learning the direct approach is stupid."
He pushed away from the tree and moved again, more carefully this time.
His memory was useful, but incomplete in all the most irritating ways. He remembered the broad outline: the Great Stamp charged head-first, their foreheads were the key, most candidates failed because they panicked or attacked badly, and the whole thing was meant to test more than brute force.
What he did not have was a detailed map of the forest, a tracker on boar positions, or a body suited for any of this.
So he did what Tonpa had always done best when strength wasn't enough.
He watched.
Tracks were easier to spot than he expected.
The forest floor held damage poorly. Saplings bent the wrong way. Mud had been churned into deep grooves. One patch of bark had been scraped nearly clean from the side of a trunk. Something huge had passed through here at speed, and recently.
Tonpa crouched slightly, then regretted it when his knees complained.
Still, he kept looking.
Heavy prints.
Deep ones.
More than one boar.
At least three, maybe four, had moved through this section.
His gaze followed the trail uphill toward a break in the trees where the ground widened near a shallow ravine lined with rock and roots.
A good place for something large to charge.
A terrible place for someone with Tonpa's legs to be caught in front of it.
He straightened slowly.
Not here, then.
He turned—
—and heard pounding footsteps behind him.
Human footsteps.
Fast. Clumsy. Panicked.
Tonpa moved on instinct, stepping aside just as a candidate tore past him with mud splashed halfway to his chest and terror written all over his face.
"It's behind me!" the man shouted to no one in particular.
Then the undergrowth exploded.
Tonpa's mind registered the shape a fraction too late.
Tusks.
Mass.
Bristled hide.
A forehead like a battering ram given bad intentions and too much confidence.
The Great Stamp burst through the brush with enough force to shatter branches in front of it.
Tonpa threw himself sideways.
His ankle twisted hard on the landing. Pain shot up his leg. Dead leaves and dirt filled his shirt as he hit the ground shoulder-first and rolled.
The boar thundered past where his chest had been half a second earlier.
The air moved with it.
The impact of its charge shook the soil.
Tonpa lay there for one shocked heartbeat, staring up through branches.
Then he swore and scrambled up before the thing could turn.
His lungs were already screaming again.
His right ankle throbbed.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful.
Ahead, the candidate who had led the boar here tried to cut around a cluster of rocks. He made it two steps before the Great Stamp pivoted with frightening speed and hit him with a glancing blow.
Not a direct gore.
Not death.
But more than enough to send the man tumbling through leaves with a cry that cut off into a groan.
Tonpa's jaw tightened.
This was the problem.
On a screen, the boars looked ridiculous first and dangerous second.
In front of him, it was the opposite.
The Great Stamp snorted, pawed once at the ground, and lowered its head again.
Its small eyes fixed forward.
Not on the downed candidate.
On Tonpa.
"Oh, come on," he said aloud.
It charged.
He ran.
Not elegantly.
Not quickly.
Just desperately.
Branches slapped his face. Leaves tore beneath his shoes. The pain in his ankle sharpened every other step, and his exhausted body protested the new abuse with savage honesty.
He veered downhill.
Bad idea.
Necessary idea.
The slope made his footing worse, but it also increased the boar's momentum, and somewhere under the panic, Tonpa knew that was the only thing he could use.
He did not have the strength to stop it.
He did not have the stamina to outrun it.
So the boar would have to ruin itself.
A low branch flashed ahead. He ducked under it badly, felt it scrape across his back, and nearly lost his footing entirely.
Behind him came the sound of wood cracking.
The boar did not duck.
It simply broke what was in its way.
Tonpa's pulse hammered so hard it blurred his hearing.
He needed a tree.
A rock.
A tight turn.
Something.
The forest opened suddenly to his left into a narrow stony cut where roots tangled over a low outcropping.
Too narrow for comfort.
Too uneven for safety.
Perfect.
He angled toward it.
The boar thundered after him.
Three steps.
Two.
One—
He twisted hard around the rock face, grabbed a jutting root with both hands, and hauled himself sideways with a movement his shoulders deeply resented.
The Great Stamp hit the turn too late.
Its weight carried it forward. Its front legs adjusted, but not enough. One tusk scraped stone with a shriek, and its massive forehead slammed into the rock face just off-center with a sickening crack.
The sound echoed through the trees.
The boar stumbled.
Not dead.
Not even close.
But stunned.
Tonpa dragged in one ragged breath and stared at it.
This was the moment.
This was where a stronger person would finish it.
This was where a protagonist would strike cleanly and look competent doing it.
Tonpa looked around wildly for anything useful.
A jagged branch jutted from the broken side of the rock where the boar had hit. It was thick, sharp enough, and already half-loose.
Good enough.
He grabbed it with both hands, planted one foot, and yanked. Bark and splinters showered him as it tore free.
The boar shook its head once, dazed but recovering.
Tonpa did not think.
He climbed one awkward step onto the rock, raised the branch like a man about to commit a crime against common sense, and drove the sharpened end downward with every bit of spite left in his body.
It hit the boar's forehead.
Not perfectly.
Not heroically.
But deep enough.
The Great Stamp screamed.
Tonpa nearly screamed with it.
The impact ran up his arms to the shoulders. The branch tore from his grip as the boar thrashed once—twice—then collapsed heavily against the base of the rock, shuddered, and went still.
Silence followed.
Tonpa stood frozen above it, bent over, breathing like his lungs had betrayed him personally.
He stared at the corpse.
Then at his shaking hands.
Then back at the corpse.
"I can't believe that worked," he whispered.
"Neither can I."
Tonpa flinched so hard he nearly slipped off the rock.
Leorio stood several steps away, mud on his shoes and disbelief on his face.
He looked from Tonpa to the dead boar and back again as if trying to decide whether he had just witnessed a kill or an especially violent accident.
Tonpa straightened with all the dignity available to a man whose shirt was full of leaves and whose ankle had strong opinions.
"You saw nothing," he said.
Leorio barked out a short laugh despite himself. "I saw enough."
He walked closer, eyeing the boar's broken angle and the improvised weapon buried in its skull.
"You planned that?"
Tonpa glanced at the rock. The torn bark. The churned-up earth. The route he had taken while trying not to die.
"Define planned."
Leorio snorted.
For a moment, the tension between them eased into something almost normal.
Then the brush to their right rustled.
Both turned.
A second Great Stamp stepped out from between the trees.
Larger.
Darker across the shoulders.
Its tusks were longer. Its neck thicker. One ear was torn at the edge, and scars crossed the front of its snout.
Tonpa stared.
The boar stared back.
And somewhere deep inside him, the part still clinging to the original story quietly sat down.
"That," he said flatly, "was not in the anime."
The new boar stepped fully into the clearing.
Its build was wrong.
Not impossible.
Significant.
Bigger than the others by a clear margin. Heavier through the chest. More deliberate in the way it moved. It did not charge at once. It looked first at the dead boar beside the rock, snorted once, then raised its head toward Tonpa and Leorio.
An alpha.
Or close enough.
Leorio's expression changed immediately. "You've got to be kidding me."
"I'd love to," Tonpa said. "I'm too tired."
The alpha scraped one hoof against the earth.
Not wild.
Measured.
Tonpa felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
The smaller Great Stamps charged like oversized bullets.
This one looked like it might actually think before killing them.
That was much worse.
Leorio lowered his stance slightly, fists rising by instinct even though instinct was clearly suicidal here.
"Any brilliant plan?" he asked without taking his eyes off the boar.
Tonpa nearly laughed.
"Do I look like I have brilliant plans left?"
"You look like someone who accidentally killed a pig the size of a wagon."
"Exactly. Accidents. Those are my specialty."
The alpha charged.
Leorio swore.
Tonpa moved.
This time they did not split.
Good.
If they split, the boar would choose one and kill him quickly.
Together, they were still doomed, but at least the doom had options.
Leorio darted left, shouting as he went. Not words, just noise—sharp, aggressive, enough to draw attention. Tonpa stumbled right, grabbed the loose branch from the first boar's skull with a grimace, and barely got it free in time.
The alpha swerved.
Not toward Tonpa.
Toward Leorio.
Smart.
Too smart.
Leorio dodged the first rush with a miracle and a very ugly leap. The boar clipped a tree hard enough to shake loose a spray of leaves, but recovered faster than the first one had.
Tonpa's stomach dropped.
No forehead stun from the glancing hit.
No easy repeat.
"Leorio!" he shouted.
Leorio looked back at exactly the wrong moment and caught his foot on a raised root.
Tonpa did not think.
Again.
That was becoming a pattern.
He ran forward on his protesting ankle and hurled the branch—not at the boar's forehead, but at its eye.
He had no idea whether this body could even throw straight.
The answer was: not well.
The branch missed the eye.
But it struck the side of the face hard enough to turn the boar's attention for half a second.
Half a second was enough.
Leorio rolled. The tusks tore through the air where his ribs had been an instant earlier.
The boar roared in frustration and turned—
—and its front hoof plunged between two exposed roots hidden beneath the leaves.
Its own momentum did the rest.
The alpha lurched sideways.
Tonpa saw it happen and understood at once.
Not strength.
Not skill.
Terrain.
"Again!" he shouted.
To his credit, Leorio did not waste time asking what he meant. He snatched up a fist-sized stone and flung it at the boar's face. It bounced harmlessly off the shoulder, but the insult was enough. The animal turned and charged him through the same bad angle.
Tonpa limped toward the roots from the other side, seized the thickest fallen branch he could lift, and jammed it low between two exposed trunks just as the boar thundered forward.
Leorio veered away at the last second.
The alpha hit the root-snare badly.
Its foreleg twisted under the shove of its own mass.
Its chest dipped.
Its forehead dropped.
"There!" Tonpa shouted.
Leorio did not hesitate.
He grabbed the jagged branch Tonpa had thrown aside earlier, planted both feet, and drove it downward with a shout born mostly from fear and relief.
This time the strike landed clean.
The boar convulsed once and crashed hard enough to shake the clearing.
Then nothing.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
Then Leorio let go of the branch, bent over with his hands on his knees, and dragged air into his lungs like a man learning the concept for the first time.
Tonpa sat down where he stood.
He did not choose to.
His legs made the decision without consulting him.
He slid down against the rock and stared blankly at the trees.
Leorio looked over. "Did you just—"
"Yes," Tonpa said. "I'm sitting. If this is dishonorable, I'll apologize later."
Leorio barked a tired laugh and then winced because even that cost energy now.
For a little while, neither of them spoke.
The forest slowly remembered how to sound normal again.
Leaves.
Insects.
Farther away, the shouts of other candidates.
Closer still, the heavy stink of boar blood and hot animal hide thickening in the damp air.
Tonpa breathed through his mouth.
The smell was awful.
Stronger than he remembered. Thicker. More alive, even in death.
Anime had never carried smell. Never carried the way blood mixed with musk and churned soil until the air itself seemed to clot.
Leorio straightened first.
His eyes moved from one dead boar to the other.
Then to Tonpa.
"You know," he said slowly, "you're getting stranger by the hour."
Tonpa let his head rest against the rock. "I've had a complicated day."
"That clown knew you."
"Yes."
"You warned people in the swamp."
"Yes."
"You killed one of these things with a tree."
Tonpa shut his eyes. "That one was mutual."
Leorio stared at him another second, then snorted. Not because he was convinced—because, for now, surviving mattered more than explanations.
He looked down at the larger boar. "Can we even carry these?"
Tonpa opened one eye, looked at both corpses, and felt a deep spiritual resentment.
Right.
The cooking part.
"I hate this exam," he said.
Leorio actually laughed this time.
Short.
Tired.
Honest.
Then he crouched beside the alpha, testing its weight with both hands.
Tonpa looked at the second corpse again.
An alpha.
Not in the anime.
Not how he remembered it.
Another small rot spreading through the story.
Another sign that the map in his head was no longer safe.
And yet, somehow, he was still alive.
Barely.
He dragged himself back to his feet with the reluctant dignity of a man rising for labor after surviving attempted murder.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's go cook revenge pig."