The abandoned house reeked of mildew and despair, its rotting beams groaning under the weight of neglect. Richard huddled in a cramped closet, his knees pressed to his chest, fighting to keep his breathing shallow. Silence was his only ally now.
A sharp, searing pain tore through his gut, and he stifled a gasp. His trembling fingers brushed the hilt of a dagger embedded in his stomach. Blood oozed from the wound, warm and sticky, soaking his shirt. He clenched his jaw, pale as death, and muttered under his breath, "Just my luck…"
Richard wasn't from this world. He'd crossed over into the chaotic universe of Hunter x Hunter, reborn as the only son of a gang leader. Moments ago, memories of his past life had flooded back—Earth, a mundane existence, nothing like this blood-soaked reality. But there was no time to process it. The gang's second-in-command had betrayed them, orchestrating a brutal purge of Richard's father's faction. Richard was the last loose end, hunted like a rat.
Footsteps echoed outside the closet, deliberate and heavy. His heart pounded, each beat a hammer against his ribs. "Damn it," he whispered, sweat beading on his brow. "They've caught up already?"
The footsteps grew closer, boots scuffing against the splintered floorboards. Richard's eyes hardened, a flicker of defiance cutting through his fear. "If I'm going down," he growled, "I'm taking at least one of you with me."
But then—reality fractured.
The closet dissolved, and Richard found himself sinking into an endless ocean. The water was frigid, pressing against his skin like a living thing. Darkness swallowed the light above, leaving only an oppressive, bottomless void. Whispers—faint, unintelligible—slithered into his ears, curling around his thoughts like smoke.
Ahead, a colossal shape loomed, its silhouette barely discernible against the abyss. An octopus, vast as a mountain, rested on the seafloor, its tentacles drifting lazily in the current. Its eyes were closed, yet its presence radiated a primal dread that made Richard's chest tighten. No creatures dared approach—not sharks, not whales, not even the smallest fish. The sea itself seemed to bow to this entity.
"What… is this?" Richard's voice trembled, lost in the deep.
He was being hunted, seconds from a fight to the death. How had he ended up here? Before he could grasp it, the creature's eyes snapped open—twin voids that seemed to pull at his soul. Their gazes locked, and Richard's body froze, his mind screaming to look away but unable to obey.
A bubble formed before the creature, glowing faintly. It drifted toward him, slow and deliberate, until it hovered inches from his face. Then, with a soft pop, it burst.
Something invaded him—foreign, cold, alive. It burrowed into his core, twisting through his veins like liquid fire. Richard screamed, but no sound came. Pain erupted in his skull, white-hot and relentless, shredding his thoughts.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in the closet. The ocean, the creature, the pain—it was gone. Or was it? His body felt… different. Lighter. Stronger. A faint hum pulsed beneath his skin, like a current waiting to be unleashed.
Richard's gaze darted to his wound. The bleeding had slowed, but the dagger remained. He grit his teeth and yanked it free, biting back a cry. Blood trickled down, but the pain was distant now, overshadowed by a new awareness.
His Aura Nodes had opened. Nen—his Nen—had awakened.
He focused, willing his energy to manifest. A clarinet materialized in his hands, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. "Crazy Sonata," he murmured, a grim smile tugging at his lips. The name came instinctively, inspired by whispers of the Dark Sonata—a cursed melody said to drive listeners to madness or death. Richard's ability was its twisted kin. One note from his clarinet could unravel a mind, turning friend to foe in a frenzy of insanity.
Outside, the footsteps stopped. Voices cut through the silence, cold and mocking.
"Richard, stop hiding. We know you're here."
"Come out, and maybe we'll make it quick—for old times' sake."
Richard's blood ran cold. He recognized the speaker: Marcus, once a friend, now a traitor who'd gutted one of Richard's bodyguards without hesitation. The betrayal stung worse than the dagger.
His fingers tightened around the clarinet. "You want me?" he whispered. "Fine."
He brought the instrument to his lips and played. A haunting melody spilled forth, soft at first, then swelling with an eerie cadence that seemed to pulse with the house's decay. The notes wove through the air, slipping under the door like a venomous mist.
Beyond the closet, Marcus froze. "Richard?" he called, his voice tinged with unease. He and his partner crept toward the sound, drawn like moths to a flame. Marcus reached for the closet door, fingers brushing the handle—
A wet thunk interrupted him. He staggered, eyes wide, as a blade pierced his back.
"Why…?" he choked, turning to face his partner.
The other man's face was a mask of madness—eyes bloodshot, mouth twisted in a manic grin. He yanked the blade free and struck again, laughing as Marcus crumpled.
Shouts erupted outside as more pursuers stormed the room, drawn by the commotion. "What the hell are you doing?!" one yelled. But the clarinet's song reached them too. Their expressions warped, sanity unraveling. Blades flashed, blood sprayed, and screams filled the air as they turned on each other in a frenzied slaughter.
The music stopped.
Richard stepped out of the closet, his clarinet vanishing with a thought. The room was a graveyard—bodies strewn across the floor, faces frozen in rictus grins. Marcus lay among them, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing.
Richard glanced at his hands, still stained with his own blood. "Nen changes everything," he said softly. Hours ago, he'd been prey, running for his life. Now, with a single melody, he'd turned his pursuers into corpses.
But questions gnawed at him. The ocean. The creature. The thing that had entered him. His Nen felt tied to it, and to the Dark Sonata's legend. Was this power a gift—or a curse?
He stepped over the bodies and into the night, the weight of survival heavy on his shoulders. Whatever lay ahead, Richard knew one thing: he was no longer just a fugitive