The continent of Eurubian.
A land abandoned by the world.
At its heart lies Meteor City—a dumping ground for every kind of refuse: broken machines, forgotten people, discarded dreams. Nothing that happens here matters to the outside world. Not even the sudden arrival of an outsider who never belonged in this reality at all.
"Phew… I finally figured it out."
Amidst mountains of garbage and rusted metal, clusters of dilapidated shacks clung stubbornly to existence. Inside one of the smallest and most unassuming of these dwellings, a young man with a boyish face let out a long, weary sigh.
"Hunter × Hunter… the Eurubian Continent… Meteor City…"
Mog glanced down at the faint, pulsing aura shimmering around his palms—life energy, raw and unrefined. His voice carried a mix of awe and frustration:
"And… Nen."
Just hours ago—or maybe days; time blurred during transmigration—he'd been in his modest eighth-floor apartment, tinkering with a new prototype in his usual routine. Then, without warning, a city bus—Bus No. 2, of all things—had smashed through his living room wall and hurled him into this dangerous, unpredictable world.
"I know this world," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "And sure, it gave me back my youth… but I never asked to come here!"
He'd grown up alone, but not unhappily. His passion for invention had earned him a modest online following. Through livestreams and short videos, he'd saved enough to buy a small apartment in his hometown. Life was finally settling into something comfortable—stable, even.
And then—this.
"Still…" He flexed his fingers, watching the aura ripple. "At least I unlocked my Nen ability the moment I arrived. And it seems… enhanced."
With no way back, Mog had no choice but to accept his new reality. He turned his focus inward, examining the ability now inscribed in his consciousness:
Nen Ability: [Master Inventor]
Description: Upon receiving a commission or request from another, you may invent items originating from countless infinite worlds.
Effect 1: [A True Master Always Has the Heart of an Apprentice]
Humans cannot conceive of what they have never seen. All invention builds upon the work of predecessors. The items you create are not yours alone—they are synthesized from the knowledge and designs of master inventors across the multiverse, refined through their accumulated experience.
Effect 2: [Invention Has No Limits—But Inventors Do]
The origin, nature, and power of each invention depend on the requester's faction, intent, and moral alignment. A weapon forged for a noble cause will differ vastly from one commissioned by a criminal.
"So… I can't just invent things on a whim," Mog mused aloud. "I need someone to ask for it."
That made sense. Even back in his old life, most of his popular inventions were requests from top donors or fans. He'd never seen it as selling out—just as fulfilling a need.
"And honestly," he added with a wry smile, "borrowing genius from across infinite worlds beats relying on my own limited skills."
He was clever, yes—but not that clever. His old creations were charming trinkets at best. Real breakthroughs came from minds far beyond his own.
As for the second rule—it enforced responsibility.
A tool isn't evil. The user is.
A kitchen knife could slice bread or end a life. Context mattered.
…Though in Meteor City, "context" was a luxury few could afford.
"Still," Mog said firmly, "intent matters most. Even here."
He thought of Gin from One Piece—a pirate branded as "evil," yet all he wanted was a meal. In a place like this, survival often looked like villainy to outsiders.
"Right now? Food matters most."
He'd spent the last two days holed up in this shack, piecing together where—and when—he'd landed. The house had belonged to a low-income scavenger who'd vanished while digging through a trash heap. With no heirs and no one to claim it, Mog had quietly taken residence.
Along with his Nen ability, he'd awoken with fluency in the Hunter language and an intuitive grasp of local customs—standard transmigration perks, it seemed.
But Meteor City didn't hand out starter kits. Beyond the roof over his head, everything else had to be scavenged, stolen, or earned.
And the last scraps of food in the cupboard were long gone.
His stomach growled.
"Great. I finally transcend dimensions… only to starve on Day Three."
He briefly considered stepping outside to scavenge—or worse, fight—for supplies. But he quickly dismissed the idea.
He was still physically weak, barely trained in Nen, and Meteor City was crawling with hidden monsters. Even seasoned fighters died in alleyways here.
No. I'm an inventor. I solve problems with creations—not fists.
Still, something about the world outside felt… off.
His eyes drifted to the wall, where a tattered calendar hung askew.
1983.
Mog froze.
"Wait… 1983?!"
Hadn't Hunter × Hunter begun in the late 1990s? Was this a prequel era? Before the Hunter Exam? Before Ging, before Hisoka—
Before everything?
A slow, nervous grin spread across his face.
"Well… if I'm stuck here… might as well leave my mark."