Togashi, what the hell are you doing.

I had assumed, upon reading and critiquing Hunter x Hunter’s thirty-fourth volume, that I’d essentially covered the gist of Togashi’s schtique – his tendency towards creating impossibly convoluted tactical setups, and his skill for resolving them as a series of dramatically coherent action beats. The fight between Chrollo and Hisoka was essentially that instinct in isolation, split between half a volume of expository notes on Chrollo’s powers and half a volume of evaluation time “I hope you got all that” payoff. Surely the complexity would let up just a tad for the next volume?

Of course, this is Hunter x Hunter we’re talking about, and beyond that, this is the Dark Continent arc. Between its princes and hunters and assassins and adventurers and all other concerned parties, Dark Continent’s fundamental complexity dwarfs basically every arc this series has offered so far, and possibly any arc portrayed in any manga. Skill aside, other manga creators simply aren’t given the leeway Togashi is afforded – Togashi has proven he can pull off dozens of chapters of setup and still sell a ridiculous number of volumes, so he gets to play in an arena no other mangaka is afforded. And god, it sure is something to see him play.

Volume thirty-four returns us to the grand ship, and focuses entirely on Kurapika’s succession battle-related trials. Hunter x Hunter’s various tonal digressions over the years mean that at this point, the manga has essentially established several sub-casts who tend to be most relevant to not just different physical arenas, but different genres within its larger whole. Gon and Killua tend to be prioritized in more grounded stories about physical challenges and personal growth, while people like Cheadle and Paristan generally reflect on the show’s larger geopolitics and “the meaning of a hunter.” And here in the middle, Kurapika’s material exists on the level of a classic thriller – plenty of political intrigue, lots of rapid, bloody twists, and an overarching obsession with figuring out who you can trust.

Kurapika himself is the key variable in this narrative, the one element of solidity in a story that exists in a perpetual state of near unraveling. While Kurapika’s initial conflicts contrasted his bloody-minded determination towards vengeance with his growing concern for his new friends, absent characters like Gon and Killua, Kurapika becomes more of a meditation on trust in general. The information war sparked by the princes learning of Nen’s existence is echoed through Kurapika’s own desperate scrabble to maintain and properly employ his own secret knowledge, putting him in conflict with the woman who’s turning out to be this arc’s unexpected emotional center: Queen Oito, the mother of Kurapika’s charge Woble.

The integration of Oito into this volume’s overall conflict is actually a perfect illustration of how Togashi often seems to resolve the complexity of his stories with… even more complexity. Early on in this volume, we learn that Kurapika can actually steal the powers of others, retain them in a special container as long as he maintains Emperor Time, and use them precisely once. At first glance, this new use of his powers feels like a total cop-out. Like with Chrollo’s wild experimentation last volume, not only does Kurapika gaining powers risk undermining our belief in the solidity of his conflict, it also feels like Togashi just getting too far in his own head in order to add more board complexity. Continuously muddying up the board with new powers might be fun for someone entirely dedicated to Togashi’s tactical mishmash, but a balance between complexity and clarity, and an assurance that the variables as we see them are the variables as they exist, is absolutely crucial to maintaining a general audience’s investment in this sort of convoluted bullshit.

And yet, for all my concerns, Kurapika’s new power ultimately ends up being used in a largely non-tactical, character-focused manner. While Oito’s conscience is clear from her early scenes, her ability to actually interact with this narrative in a meaningful way is far less clear. Just two chapters after introducing his new power, Kurapika further reveals that this power also lets him “hand off” these borrowed abilities to others. Because of this, Oito is able to participate directly in the next several succession schemes, demonstrating quick thinking, bravery, and unwavering dedication to her moral beliefs. The contrast between Oito’s compassion and Kurapika’s pragmatism ultimately converges with Oito’s use of Kurapika’s powers, ending in a moment that quietly acts as both this volume’s climax and thesis. Having used Kurapika’s powers to learn the twelfth prince is being strangled in her bed, Oito immediately abandons their plan, revealing her trick and stating that “my stepdaughter’s life is in danger. This is no time for games!” King Nasubi is a monster who’s raised a family of monsters, but if Oito somehow survives this arc, she could do some real work turning this country around.

This idea of inventing more nen complexity to resolve fundamental narrative problems also applies to Woble’s many siblings. I initially was somewhat baffled by the introduction of “nen beasts” – they certainly seemed like creepy and evocative creatures, but their inclusion in the narrative felt arbitrary. Here in the midst of the succession war, their purpose has become much more clear. Clearly not all the princes would have access to nen (in fact, this first act’s drama is predicated on the fallout of all of them learning nen exists simultaneously), but it wouldn’t do to have all of the “bosses” of this arc also entirely vulnerable to nen, either. Thus, the nen beast: a creature that gives each of these princes their own terrifying champion without undercutting their personalities and priorities in any other way. “Nen beasts” essentially double down on the way nen often echoes JoJo’s Stands, offering a way for even characters with no martial arts training to immediately compete as real threats in Kurapika’s arena.

The nature and designs of the nen beasts also allows this story to manage an even balance of grounded crime family thrills and utterly horrific fantasy. The Chimera Ant arc naturally catered to Togashi’s growing passion for visual weirdness, but here in this largely black tie event, it comes down to these beasts to provide those glimpses of cosmic horror that Dark Continent continues to rely on. Many of the visual highlights of this volume are the direct introductions of the various beasts, whose physical forms evoke the power and malice of their owners. Perhaps my favorite segment of this volume relies heavily on their appeal, as we’re introduced to the thoughtful and intelligent Theta, given just enough context to start to believe in her confidence, and then forced to witness her master’s beast alongside her.

That Theta segment points to another of this volume’s great triumphs: its success in sturdily establishing not just the divergent princely factions, but the fact that even within those factions, there are many guards and cooks and retainers who all have their own unique feelings about the overall situation. Chimera Ant obviously succeeded at this brilliantly, but Dark Continent attempts what Chimera Ant accomplished over far less running time, giving us just occasional but welcome hints at the moral complexity of all this charade’s many actors.

Oh, by the way, this shit also looks great. The otherworldly horror of the nen beasts is certainly this volume’s most immediate standout, but other highlights here demonstrate things like Togashi’s understanding of scale and texture, as well as his restless paneling experiments. I loved this particular sequence of panels from early in the volume, where Kurapika’s chain passing from one panel to the next implied the sense of momentum and snap inherent in his movement. Other tricks are more subtle, like ones using the actual divergent size and dimensions of specific panels for dramatic effect. In this sequence, the fact that Oito’s panel extends to the left beyond the others naturally implies both a long pause and a larger sense of time passing, perfect for Oito’s unspoken misgivings regarding the end of that particular conversation. In a later sequence, that same trick is used for a panel of Kurapika’s right arm, implying the lingering focus of this segment’s focus character (who himself extends past the panels on the top right, reflecting our entrance into his headspace).

I could go on, but it’s all minutia at this point – Hunter x Hunter is so suffused with clever tricks of tactical setup and visual storytelling that it’s harder to determine when to stop gushing than how to start. As for this volume, in spite of technically being more or less entirely dedicated to setup and exposition, it still feels propulsive from start to finish, returning us to Kurapika’s manic thriller world for ten more delirious chapters of suffering and stress. Someone let this kid take a nap.

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