Heaven's Arena.
Kevin tilted his head back, gazing up at the monstrously tall structure that seemed to pierce the clouds, its upper floors lost in the atmospheric haze.
"And this is only the fourth tallest in the world?" he muttered, a sense of surreal scale washing over him. The tallest buildings from his old life paled in comparison. The technology—and the general physical robustness of the people in this world—was on a completely different level.
The area around the arena's base was a bustling microcosm of martial culture, truly living up to its title as a combat holy land. The crowds were a tapestry of fighters: stoic warrior monks, focused boxers, sleek fencers, and practitioners of styles he couldn't even name. And among them, scattered like needles in a haystack, were Nen users. Their numbers were small, but his trained eye could pick them out—or rather, he could pick out those who weren't bothering to hide.
Under Bisky's tutelage, he'd learned the basic tell: observing whether the aura above a person's head dissipated naturally upward, a sign of an untrained, unconscious emission. But he privately found the method flawed. With his own precise control, he could easily mimic that dissipating pattern while maintaining a rock-solid Ten, making himself appear completely ordinary. Disguise, he realized, was a layer of combat he was instinctively preparing for.
As he walked silently through the throngs, his mind turned inward. He was no longer ignorant about Nen; in fact, Bisky had assured him his theoretical knowledge now surpassed that of most practicing users, many of whom had awakened through accident or trauma without ever learning the formal foundations.
His current focus, however, was parsing the deeper implications of his own situation. Though Bisky had never spelled it out, the entirety of her advanced lessons had subtly emphasized two critical, interlinked concepts: **Vows & Limitations**, and **Post-Mortem Nen.**
The former was a framework for power. By placing a strict restriction or condition on oneself or one's ability, its other effects could be strengthened exponentially. Bisky had warned him it wasn't a game—such vows couldn't be conjured from thin air; they had to spring from genuine, often painful, personal history and obsession. She'd added, almost offhandedly, that she didn't believe Kevin was a person burdened by such obsessions. Yet, she'd said, the subconscious mind often weaves minor limitations into ability construction naturally.
It was the latter concept, Post-Mortem Nen, that cast a longer shadow. Born from a person's most intense will or fixation at the moment of death, it was a force that could persist and even grow stronger. It wasn't exclusive to Nen users, though their remnants were far more potent.
The conclusion was inescapable: **A Moment of Dream** was a Post-Mortem Nen. The fragmented memories and lab records painted a picture of his body's original owner—a man possessed by a fanatical, all-consuming love for pharmaceutical alchemy. That very obsession had likely birthed the Specialist-type ability in life. Bisky's axiom held true: Nen ability was a mirror of one's past and will.
And his own poor learning ability? A side effect of that overwhelming, singular fixation? A scar left on the psyche? Kevin couldn't be sure.
Post-Mortem Nen was strengthened by death's final obsession. Therefore, the *A Moment of Dream* he now wielded was undoubtedly more potent than its living version. But this boon came with a curse for anyone else: any potion he created, if used by another, carried a side effect proportional to its strength. A hidden tax, levied by the original creator's lingering will. The stronger the medicine, the sharper the sting—though the benefit would always outweigh the cost. For him, the user, this drawback did not exist.
In the end, it was still a "golden finger," a tremendous asset, much like his preternatural aura control. But it was a legacy gift, wrapped in the bittersweet paper of another's final, desperate dream. As he stood before the arena, the task of building something uniquely his felt both daunting and necessary. He would carry this inheritance, but he would not be defined by it alone. The first step was through those doors.
Lost in thought, he made his way back to the modest apartment he'd rented. One room had been meticulously converted into a basic laboratory, its shelves now lined with an array of relatively precious "materials" salvaged from his original stash. He hadn't been able to take everything from the old house, opting instead for the most expensive and hardest-to-obtain components; the common ones could be bought with money.
"Now," he murmured to himself, rubbing his hands together, a spark of eager anticipation in his eyes, "let me get to know you on a much deeper level."
During the first week back in the city, he'd resisted the urge to experiment, only running a few tentative tests. He hadn't truly understood the ability then. And during Bisky's wilderness training, there had been no opportunity at all—her regimen had been all-consuming.
He spread his hands. With a soft shimmer of aura, the familiar pharmaceutical table materialized, its three scales gleaming. He retrieved an empty glass vial from a drawer and slotted it into the circular receptacle at the table's base.
Following a formula etched in his inherited memory, he selected three ingredients.
Copper Scale: Sun-Red Flower (dried).
A common herb with muscle-stimulating properties. Affordable and available at most major apothecaries.
Silver Scale: Fire-Duck Heart & Liver (fresh).
The organs of a moderately aggressive wetland bird, known to have a general fortifying effect on the body. He'd just purchased this at a market.
Gold Scale: Savage-Tiger Bone (powder).
The powdered bone of a magical beast, the Savage-Tiger. Its properties accelerated heart rate, boosted adrenaline, and temporarily enhanced muscular strength. This was one of the pricier items from his personal stash.
Each ingredient was placed on its corresponding scale. The hierarchy was clear: the Gold Scale held the primary ingredient, defining the potion's core effect. The Silver Scale bore the auxiliary ingredient, which would add secondary properties or amplify the primary one. The Copper Scale held the fusion agent, the crucial catalyst that bound everything together. Choosing the wrong fusion agent could render the brew inert or, worse, lethally toxic.
A critical rule: all materials had to be his—truly possessed, with no room for self-deception. The ability itself would judge.
With everything set, text began to glow on the table's base—a new feature it had gained after becoming Post-Mortem Nen.
[Effect: Increase muscular strength. Increase aura output visibility. Accelerate consumption of stamina and aura.]
Kevin took a steadying breath and entered a state of Zetsu, sealing his aura nodes. Immediately, all his visible aura—the energy that normally radiated from him—surged into the pharmaceutical table, becoming the fuel for the process.
The cost of alchemy was twofold: visible aura (his maximum output at any moment) and latent aura (his total internal reservoir). The strength of the potion dictated the drain on both, as well as the time required.
To put it simply: a person was like a pressurized water gun. Latent aura was the total water in the tank. Visible aura was the force and volume of the stream when the trigger was pulled.
This particular potion wasn't overly powerful. The aura drain was manageable, and the time… wasn't long.
The glowing text finalized: [Production Time: 1 Hour.]
The scales began to glow faintly, and the intricate mechanisms within the table whirred to life with a soft, resonant hum. The refinement had begun.
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