Hunter X Hunter : The Boundary

Chapter 11: Where the Power Goes

In Tower City, the July sun was a hammer. The construction site in the West Suburb New Area baked in the heat, a haze of metal and cement rising from the ground. Machines roared, welding sparks flew, and heavy footsteps echoed across the steel floors.

Ryan stood calmly at the edge of a construction platform.

Today was his first time accompanying his father to the site. His father's team was building a new government office, and because the site was temporarily closed for a safety review, workers were allowed to bring their children.

"See that rebar frame?" his father said, pointing with pride. "Fifteen-meter span. Your Uncle Yan and I put that one together. And look there, they're using the new three-section hook locks. Much safer than what we had."

Ryan listened, but his eyes were performing a different kind of scan. His mind was running a crisis simulation, mapping the structural weaknesses. Which support beam is the most stressed? Where is the main hoist-point load concentrated? Which worker isn't using a safety harness? He noted every vulnerability.

Suddenly, a sharp groan of stressed metal echoed from above.

Ryan's head snapped up a split second before his father's.

A three-meter scaffolding board, knocked loose from a temporary support, had torn free. It wasn't sliding. It was falling. And his father, his back to the danger, was standing directly in its path.

"Dad!"

There was no hesitation. No wasted motion. Ryan lunged, a compact missile of muscle and will, and slammed his shoulder into his father's lower back. The tall man, caught completely off guard, stumbled two steps to the side, barely catching his balance.

The board struck the platform with a deafening CRACK!

Wood splinters and steel nails exploded outwards. The end of the board whipped around, and a deep, bloody gash tore open on Ryan's left arm.

"RYAN!!"

His father's horrified shout cut through the chaos. He scrambled to his son, pulling him into his arms. Workers rushed over from all directions. "What happened? Who didn't tighten those bolts?" someone yelled. Old Yan pressed a wad of gauze from his toolbox against the wound.

"This kid..." Yan stammered, his face pale with anxiety. "If he'd been half a second slower, we'd be calling an ambulance."

"Nice one, kid!" another worker exclaimed. "How old is he? Seven? The strength... to push a grown man like that..."

His father's face was ashen. He clutched his son, speechless.

Ryan lay in his father's arms, no tears on his face, no panic in his eyes. His breathing was steady, even as sharp pain radiated from his arm.

It was a sudden, violent test— and he had passed. But the goal hadn't been to defeat an enemy. It had been to protect his father. In that moment, he understood.

The primary attribute of strength wasn't aggression. It was protection.

The next morning, his father gently cleaned the wound by the water barrel in their courtyard. His normally rough hands were exceptionally careful.

"Does it hurt?" he asked softly.

"No," Ryan replied.

His mother sat under the eaves, her eyes red. "I'm not blaming you," she said, her voice trembling. "It's just... you're so small. I don't understand how you could..."

Ryan looked down at the bandage on his arm. It wasn't a mark of shame. It was evidence.

Tangible proof that all the training, all the hours, all the pain, had a real purpose. He hadn't acted on impulse. He had acted because he saw the danger, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that he had the ability to change the outcome.

"If I hadn't moved," Ryan's voice was low but firm, "he would have been hit."

His mother fell silent. She simply nodded and went inside to the kitchen. His father said nothing more, but that night, he just sat in the courtyard, smoking one cigarette after another.

Late that night, Ryan sat at his desk, not savoring any feeling of heroism, but reflecting. He was rewriting his definition of strength.

His previous goals—physical enhancement, Nen preparation—all served the grand strategy of entering the Hunter World. But yesterday had introduced an epiphany.

Protection.

It meant you saw the danger before anyone else. It meant you could withstand the impact better than anyone else. It meant you could remain calm, decisive, and unwavering when it mattered most.

He drew a new section in his notes. The title was simple: Protection.

Goal: Shield a designated target from harm.

Assessment Metrics: Danger Perception, Reaction Time, Collision Angle Control, Self-Injury Tolerance.

Feedback: First deployment of combat-level ability successful. Emotional control maintained under stress and trauma.

Optimization: Add training for rolling to disperse force and for predicting the trajectory of falling objects.

He wrote a final line at the bottom of the page, a new principle.

Strength isn't for defeating enemies. It's for reaching the people who matter before disaster can.

He remembered Gon catching his comrades. He remembered Killua shielding his sister. Those images, once just memories, were now part of his own code.

Lying in bed, his arm throbbing with a dull, persistent ache, he didn't frown. His body was not yet strong enough, but his path had never been clearer. It wasn't about how hard he could punch.

It was about whether his actions could save another person's fate.

His training had a new metric, a question he would ask himself every day.

Not "Can I win?" but "Who can I save?"