Amid the thunderous cheers of the arena, the announcer shouted with passion, "First to enter, with a calm and elegant fighting style, from the tribal people—[Furious Blow]—Mito!"
Clearly, this man wasn't very well-known. Amid the sparse applause, he strode toward the arena.
"Next up, the man whose wins and losses depend solely on his whims, who remains Im! Mo! Va! Ble! As! A! Mountain!—Kevin Carpenberg!"
In an instant, the crowd erupted. The title "Immovable Mountain" and the name Kevin were shouted in unison.
Kevin walked toward the arena with a smile, waving to the audience in the stands.
"Why's he called that?" a first-time spectator asked, curious about Kevin.
A veteran fan nearby immediately replied, "That's because he never moves when attacked, just stands there like a mountain. No matter how strong the opponent, they can't hurt him."
"But if he's that strong, why did it take him three months to reach this level?"
People who regularly watch these matches knew that truly powerful fighters usually only took a few days to reach their rightful ranking.
"Well, that's just his own choice. Winning or losing is up to his mood. There are deeper reasons too, but only those who understand the game can really see it." The old fan chuckled as he spoke.
Just then, a loyal fan nearby scoffed and said, "Don't listen to that nonsense. Because Kevin fights based on his own preferences, the betting odds in his matches fluctuate like crazy. That's why gamblers love the thrill of betting on him." As a real fan, he deeply disliked how gambling tainted the integrity of the matches.
Some veteran gamblers often won because they had sharp eyes—they could tell who had the advantage.
But with someone like Kevin, who might suddenly lose despite clearly dominating, it added a layer of unpredictability that made betting on him exciting.
"The real reason he's earned that title is because no one's ever knocked him down for points. No one's ever K.O.'d him. Opponents usually only win by scoring effective hits."
"Plus, he doesn't dodge or get hurt when attacked. Often, even if he loses, he's just a little dusty, while the winner walks away black and blue."
At first, that kind of outcome drew a lot of hate toward Kevin—many gamblers lost everything betting against such odd results.
Meanwhile, in the arena, the crowd's chatter didn't delay the match's start.
Kevin stood relaxed in the arena, casually eyeing his opponent.
A middle-aged man with black hair stood across from him, wearing tribal-style robes adorned with mysterious embroidery. In his hand was what looked like an ordinary wooden staff.
He seemed like a typical martial artist—his aura was natural and untrained.
Kevin lifted his hand and casually gestured, inviting the opponent to attack.
The man remained silent and suddenly charged toward Kevin with explosive speed.
"Now that's more like it—matches over the 150th floor are something else," Kevin thought, pleased. He casually raised his arm to block the staff strike. Then, lifting his leg, he blocked the incoming whip-like kick.
Mito's assault combined speed and strength, his attacks raining down like a storm, one after another.
He clearly had skill. The attacks looked wild but were actually part of a flowing, connected rhythm.
Yet every single one was smoothly blocked by Kevin.
Suddenly, Mito shifted his staff mid-attack, changing a swing into a stab, slipping past Kevin's guard to land a precise hit on his chest.
"Effective hit!"
With the announcer's call, the score became 0:1.
Normally, a blow like that would leave most martial artists breathless and unable to fight.
It'd be the perfect chance to go for a K.O.
But Kevin didn't budge. He touched the struck spot, then looked at Mito—who had already retreated after realizing the attack didn't have the expected effect.
"Nice technique. Normally, I'd have fun sparring with you and then lose. But this time, I don't feel like wasting time failing," Kevin said with a smile, waving at Mito.
That arrogant attitude clearly enraged Mito.
It was the first time he'd encountered such a dismissive opponent.
"Hm?" Kevin sensed something odd.
He noticed the man's aura suddenly grow stronger—visibly denser, swelling across his body. But Mito wasn't supposed to know how to use aura yet.
Gripping his staff tightly, Mito's speed nearly doubled as he launched himself at Kevin once again.
"Look! Mito's furious now!"
That's where the title [Furious Blow] came from.
Kevin reached out to block the staff and felt a sharp pain—his opponent had definitely gotten stronger.
Kevin realized that if he wanted to win this match, he couldn't stay on the defensive.
As the attacks continued to pour down like a hurricane, Kevin's body suddenly moved. As if by instinct, he slipped through an opening in the onslaught and landed a solid punch to Mito's abdomen.
Even without using aura, Kevin's physical strength was formidable.
BANG!
With a deafening impact, Mito was sent flying. His face twisted in agony, his mouth wide open as he vomited, his body crashing hard into the edge of the arena.
"OHHHH! Kevin actually attacked for once! What a powerful blow! Mito's down! Is this a K.O.?!"
The referee rushed over to check if Mito could get up, beginning the count.
Kevin remained still, looking down at his own fist with a slight frown, seemingly pondering something.
When he'd struck Mito just now, he'd sensed a faint, familiar desire—the same kind of hunger he'd felt when touching that special opal.
He realized Mito carried a rare material.
What a surprise—totally unexpected.
Just then, Mito stirred. Groaning, he forced himself to rise.
"Oh! Mito's back on his feet! Is he going to continue fighting?"
"Hang in there!"
"Hit him back, don't give up!"
"I bet everything on you—don't screw this up!"
The audience shouted from every direction.
But Mito, holding his stomach, his face twisted in pain, looked at Kevin—still motionless—and slowly raised his hand.
"I… surrender."
He knew full well that he couldn't win. His attacks felt like a child's punches, while Kevin's single blow had been too much to bear.
"Match over! The winner is…"
The arena exploded in celebration.
"Haha! I knew it! I studied his patterns. Kevin wouldn't want to lose and have to fight back up again. Of course he chose victory this time!"
"Then why didn't you say so earlier, you jerk?"
Two friends who'd bet on opposite fighters began roughhousing in the stands.
Meanwhile, in the resting area, the small Killua raised both hands in excitement.
After the cheering died down, he muttered in confusion, "Is his body made of steel or something?" Kevin's performance left him totally baffled.
In the arena, Kevin glanced at the stretcher carrying Mito away, then briskly walked off.
Later that evening—
Mito walked out of the medical room, still rubbing his sore belly.
He knew Kevin had held back. That punch had knocked him out of the match, but thankfully didn't cause serious injury.
"That young guy's a monster. His body's as hard as metal," Mito muttered.
"Talking about me?" a voice suddenly said from the doorway.
The unexpected voice startled Mito, but he quickly recovered and asked, "What are you doing here? Something you want?"
He didn't think Kevin had come to humiliate him.
"Yeah. Mind if we chat for a bit?"
patreon.com/HRT862 for 20 chaters ahead