"He's doing it again—Killua's signature feline pacing!"
In the arena, Killua circled his opponent, watching carefully. He didn't attack recklessly.
His family's philosophy taught him to start every battle with observation, determining whether the enemy was someone he could handle—ideally taking them down in one decisive blow.
"Ogushiro's charging in! He's launching the first attack. Will this strike score him a point?"
The other young fighter had already dashed forward—quick, light on his feet, and extremely fast.
A whip kick.
"I won't underestimate you just because you're young. A match is a match, and I'll go all out! Even if you've already lost twice in the 100th-floor battles."
Ogushiro spoke seriously, his youthful face full of determination.
He'd watched the footage. Killua's last two defeats had ended with him surrendering, not losing outright.
And in both cases, he had injured his opponents while sustaining little damage himself.
"Tch, this time I'll win for sure."
Killua ducked under the whip kick, hands together, fingernails sharpening into razor-like claws.
He was even faster than his opponent—within a blink, his strike was already aimed at Ogushiro's neck.
Ogushiro's eyes widened in shock, every hair on his body standing on end. He could feel the presence of death.
Using the momentum from his own kick, he twisted his entire body with force.
After the clash, the two fighters switched positions.
Ogushiro touched his neck with a serious look—his fingers came back stained with blood.
The referee raised his flag.
"Valid strike! Killua scores the first point!"
In the Heavens Arena, victory was based on a point system.
Valid Hit: 1 point
Lethal Strike: 2 points
Victory was determined by reaching 10 points or knocking the opponent out.
All scoring was judged by on-site referees—no need to doubt their professionalism. These were among the most elite in the world.
Many of them were expert fighters themselves. Misjudgments in Heavens Arena were practically nonexistent.
A triumphant smile appeared on Killua's youthful face.
In the stands, Kevin Carpenberg frowned amid the cheering crowd.
"How is even a little kid stronger than me? This world really is dangerous."
He was talking about combat technique.
Back in the arena, the battle continued—but the situation had flipped. Killua was now the aggressor, forcing Ogushiro to defend.
Each of Killua's attacks was dangerously precise.
The score quickly climbed to 8–2.
"Isn't Ogushiro stronger than Killua's last opponent? So why does Killua have such a clear upper hand?"
Someone nearby asked in curiosity.
The reply came from a confident fan of Killua: "You must not know—this kid's insanely strong. I've watched him climb from the first floor to the 140th in just two months.
Last time, I thought he had a good shot too, but after taking a few hits, he surrendered. Maybe he's just too young and runs out of stamina."
Kevin listened to the fight and the conversations around him.
He had to admit—these long-time arena fans had sharp eyes.
At least before being trained by Biscuit, he probably wouldn't have been any better at reading matches than them.
Impressive.
"That kid's ruthless—every strike is meant to kill." a middle-aged man said disapprovingly.
A fan beside him replied, "You're not from around here, are you?"
"What's your point?" the man asked with irritation.
This was the Republic of Mingbo, one of the Five Great Nations. Naturally, the locals had a certain pride—it was expected.
The fan raised his hands in peace and smiled. "No offense. But this is the Heavens Arena. Fighters from all over the world gather here.
Stick around and you'll see—scary kids like him pop up every few years."
"Hmph."
At that moment, a whistle blew.
"Lethal strike! The winner is Killua! The six-year-old who's now reached the 150th floor!"
Killua had successfully advanced to the 150th floor.
The audience roared like a tidal wave.
In the arena, Ogushiro lay collapsed on the ground, clutching his bleeding stomach. Doctors stationed nearby were already rushing in.
Killua, meanwhile, looked almost completely untouched—just a bit of dust on his clothes.
He gave a bright, childlike smile and waved to the audience, triggering even more cheers.
…
Kevin was already filling out the registration form at the front desk.
He listened as the receptionist explained the rules of the Heavens Arena.
The higher your floor, the more prize money you earned. After the 100th floor, competitors received luxury accommodations—hotel-level quality.
Each ten floors marked a new tier. The 100th and 200th floors were major milestones. Above 200, there were no cash prizes—only glory.
And the prize money? Generous to an absurd degree.
Starting from the 100th floor, the reward jumped to the millions. After the 150th floor, it rose to tens of millions.
Reaching the 190th floor earned you a staggering 200 million.
No wonder so many fighters were drawn here—it was all about the money.
"Would you like to fight right away?"
"There's a match now?" Kevin asked, surprised.
The receptionist nodded. "Yes. If you agree, we can arrange a bout immediately."
"Let's do it."
Almost without delay, Kevin was escorted to the arena.
As a newly registered 1st-floor contestant, he was assigned to a smaller arena.
Interestingly, even this beginner-level match had packed stands.
While waiting, Kevin sat in the fighters' lounge and watched the matches on a screen.
He quickly understood why these early rounds had such a big audience.
Betting. That was the arena's real source of revenue.
People watched even the lowest-level matches, scouting out skilled fighters and following them all the way up with their bets.
Kevin watched match after match.
They ended quickly—either total domination, or equally weak fighters scraping together the full score.
"Kevin Carpenberg, it's your turn."
Kevin stood up and walked toward the arena.
In these lower-tier arenas, matches happened constantly. There were no official commentators, just a rotating panel of referees.
As he stepped onto the stage, Kevin saw his opponent.
Seemed to be about his age—mid to late teens.
Right—this body was only around twenty, a total academic nerd.
"Another white-haired guy?" Kevin muttered.
His opponent was a tall, thin youth with long white hair and a newsboy cap.
Another assassin from some secret clan?
Even in this world of colorful hair, white was still rare.
"Hello, I'm Kite," the young man greeted politely.
Doesn't look like an assassin.
But Kevin didn't let his guard down. He frowned and stayed alert.
"Yeah. I'm Kevin."
Just my luck—my first match and I run into a Nen user.
Out of all the fighters here, he hadn't seen many who could use Nen.
And this guy had to be his very first opponent.
Do Nen users have some kind of magnetic pull or what?
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