Authors-Note
Hey everyone! How are you guys doing?I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I wanted to ask you something fun: what ideas do you have for Serik's Nen ability? I won't reveal mine yet — I already have one in mind, and it's different from anything you'll probably write down here — but I'm really curious to see your creativity.
I love Hunter x Hunter fanfics, and honestly it feels strange that there aren't more of them. The series has so much potential: great characters, an amazing ability system, and a world full of unexplored places. I really hope more HxH stories will appear in the future.
As for this story, I'm not sure how long it will run, but I'm aiming for at least 100 chapters if everything goes well.And yes, you probably noticed it already — I do use AI in my writing process. English isn't my first language (it's actually my third), so ChatGPT helps me shape ideas. But I always rewrite things, cut the cheesy parts, fix the bad parts, and put a lot of thought into each chapter before I upload it.
The beginning of the story was intentionally darker and more serious. I didn't want to downplay what Serik went through. The person I want him to become isn't a loser — he's more like a courageous fool, someone you'll understand better as his journey continues.
Anyway, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave feedback or Nen ideas!Peace out, fellow Hunters ✌️
-----------------------------------------------
The morning sun was warm but not harsh, the kind of light that made the yard look almost peaceful despite everything that had happened there. Serik stepped outside with a grin he hadn't worn in months. His body felt light, his wounds old ghosts. The rage that had fueled him earlier was gone—what remained was pure, electric excitement.
Jons waited at the center of the yard, hands folded behind his back.
"Young master," he said evenly, "from today onward, we will do something different."
Serik's eyes lit up instantly. "Different? What is it? What are we doing?!"
"Martial arts training," Jons replied.
Serik's heart leapt. "Really?! Finally! Show me, show me!"
Jons nodded once and stepped forward. "We will begin with the first and most fundamental movement of the style you will learn."
He demonstrated slowly.
Serik watched every shift of weight, every twist of Jons' hips, the subtle lowering of his shoulder, the diagonal step that almost looked like a dancer's glide—until the moment Jons' forearm tapped the post.
A crack splintered through it.
Serik's mouth fell open. "Are… are you KIDDING ME?!"
"This is the most basic movement," Jons said, as if he hadn't just dented solid wood with a casual gesture. "Now you try."
Serik puffed up with confidence. "Easy."
He marched to the post, mimicked the stance… and slammed his forearm into it.
Nothing happened.
"Ow." Serik shook his arm dramatically. "Okay. Okay, I just need to loosen up."
He tried again.
And again.
And again.
Not even a wobble.
Jons corrected him each time, tapping his elbow, adjusting his foot, lightly pushing his hip. Serik kept trying, failing, trying harder, failing harder. For the first hour, it was embarrassing. For the second hour, frustrating. By the third hour, sweat dripped from his chin like rain.
But he kept going.
The entire first week became a cycle of repetition. Wake up, stretch, stance training, practice, meals, more practice, collapsing into bed. Jons corrected him constantly, but never raised his voice.
"Shift your weight forward."
"Lower your shoulder."
"Too stiff. Relax."
"Too loose. Tighten."
"Again."
Serik groaned. He swore under his breath. He fell so many times he started leaving little dents in the dirt. But little by little, the movement began to make sense. The week ended with Serik managing to make the post twitch—not crack, not bend, just a tiny tremble.
He stared at it like it was a miracle.
"Did you see that?!" he yelled.
Jons nodded. "Acceptable progress."
"Acceptable?!" Serik threw his hands up. "That was awesome!"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Jons' mouth. "Then let us stop here for today."
Serik collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving, but his grin didn't fade for a second.
Jons watched him for a moment, then said, "Young master."
"Hm?"
"You will learn the style's second technique next week. Before that… you should know something."
Serik turned his head. "What?"
Jons sat down beside him—rare. "The movements you are practicing… I did not create them."
Serik blinked. "Then who did?"
A quiet wind rustled the leaves.
"Your grandfather," Jons said. "He taught them to me."
Serik bolted upright. "WAIT WHAT?! YOU KNEW HIM?!"
"Yes."
"Then—how?! When?! Why?!" Serik grabbed Jons' sleeve like an excited child. "TELL ME EVERYTHING."
Jons exhaled silently, the way a man does when he knows resistance is pointless. "Very well. But remember… you asked."
He looked away for a moment, gathering the memory, then began speaking with the same calm tone he used for everything—except this time, there was something faintly uncomfortable beneath it.
"I was in my twenties when I met him. On a job in York New City."
Serik leaned in.
"I was shot. Twice. Once in the shoulder, once in the thigh. I was running from a group of armed men. Many armed men."
Serik blinked. "How many?"
"Enough to make me reconsider the job," Jons said dryly. "I ran the wrong direction and reached a dead end. When I turned around… they were already there."
Serik's eyes widened.
"And then everything went black."
"What?!"
"When I regained consciousness," Jons continued, "I was lying in a… nest."
Serik stared at him, dumbfounded. "Like… a bird nest?"
"Yes."
"How big?!"
"Big enough to fit a dozen men."
Serik's brain short-circuited.
"And I was," Jons added calmly, "very high in the air. So high the ground looked like distant fog."
Serik's jaw dropped. "WHAT?! JONS—WHAT?!"
Jons ignored the outburst. "When I opened my eyes, I saw your grandfather standing over me."
He paused, searching for the right words.
"He had black hair. Amethyst eyes. A lean build. A black birthmark next to his Adam's apple. And… he was wearing a bird costume."
Serik slapped both hands over his mouth to stifle laughter. "A BIRD WHAT?!"
"A bird costume," Jons repeated stiffly. "One tailored to fit him perfectly."
Serik made a choking sound. Inside, he was almost dying from laughter.
Jons continued in the same calm tone, but Serik noticed the faint twitch of irritation at the corner of his eye.
"He looked down at me and said, 'So you are finally awake. Took you long enough. Hehehe. Now what am I going to do with you?'"
Serik bit his fist to avoid screaming with laughter.
"I feared," Jons said, "that this man had saved me only to kill me."
"What did he do?!" Serik blurted.
"He," Jons said dryly. "He did something far worse then killing me."
Serik leaned forward.
"He picked me up by the shoulders. Carried me to the edge of the nest. And said, 'You know… when baby birds do not learn to fly fast enough, their mother throws them out. So they either fly…'"
Jons sighed.
"'…or die.'"
Serik burst out laughing. Loudly. Uncontrollably. He rolled onto his back, kicking the air. "NO WAY—HE DIDN'T—HE DIDN'T—"
"He dropped me," Jons said, expression flat but his face lost all color as if he experienced it all over again.
Serik howled.
"Before dropping me," Jons added, "he gave me a smile that suggested he found my suffering deeply entertaining."
Serik slapped the ground. Tears leaked out of his eyes.
"I grabbed branches," Jons said. "They broke."
Serik laughed harder.
"I tried to dig my fingers into the bark."
"ST—STOP—PLEASE—"
"They slipped."
"JONS STOP I CAN'T—"
"I begged for my life at one point."
Serik shrieked with laughter. "YOU WHAT?!"
"And before I hit the ground," Jons finished, "your grandfather caught me in a princess carry."
Serik lay there wheezing, unable to breathe.
Jons cleared his throat lightly. "Are you finished?"
"NO—no—give me—hang on—" Serik rolled over, clutching his stomach. "Princess carry?! Jons you—HAHAHAHA—"
Something whistled through the air.
A metal fork grazed Serik's cheek, leaving a thin line of blood.
Serik froze.
Jons stood perfectly straight, face calm. "Young master, dinner utensils are not toys."
Serik touched his cheek, then looked at the fork embedded in the dirt.
"...okay," he said quietly.
Jons bowed. "Good."
But Serik saw it—just barely—the faintest pink at the tips of Jons' ears.
And that somehow made him laugh again.
"That," Serik said breathlessly, "was the best story I've ever heard."
"You will hear the rest another time," Jons replied, turning away. "For now… you should rest."
Serik wiped his cheek and stood, still grinning. "Yeah. Tomorrow we start week two, right?"
"Yes," Jons said. "The next move."