CRACK!
A crisp, mechanical snap echoed in the quiet room. The pharmaceutical table, its scales spinning in a final, shimmering blur, locked into stillness. A glass vial popped from its base with a soft thunk.
Thud.
Kevin collapsed onto the floorboards beside it, gasping. "Hah... this is worse than sparring with Mori," he wheezed, wiping a flood of sweat from his brow. He was drenched. The hour-long process had been a continuous, draining siphon on his aura—not the sharp fatigue of battle, but a deep, hollowing depletion that left him feeling scraped raw.
He forced himself up, his limbs leaden, and retrieved the potion. The moment the vial left its slot, the materialized table dissolved into fading light. Slumping into a chair, he weakly examined his creation: a viscous, molten orange liquid that glowed faintly in the dim room.
"A Strength Potion," he named it quietly. All his concoctions shared the same cruel poetry: immense potential, bottled for only fifteen minutes. A Moment of Dream, indeed.
That night, sleep was elusive. In the dark, his mind churned. A Moment of Dream was powerful, but it was a support ability, bound by strict rules. He was an Enhancer. He needed something direct, something that unified his strange collection of gifts—the alchemy, the instinctive control, the high secondary affinities—into a single, devastating force.
How?
***
The next day. Heaven's Arena, 145th Floor, B Block.
The roar of the crowd was a physical force. Kevin sat in the stands, a spectator ticket clenched in his hand. He'd heard this was the match to see.
"And his opponent…" the announcer's voice hit a fever pitch, "at only SIX YEARS OLD… 'White Cat'—KILLUA ZOLDYCK!!!"
The arena detonated in sound. Kevin stared, dumbfounded, as a boy with a mop of white hair and a spectacular scowl stalked into the ring. Six. And to Kevin's Nen-trained senses, the boy wasn't even a Nen user. The realization was a cold splash of reality. This world's baseline was terrifying.
"There it is, Killua's unique cat-like observation walk!" the commentator cried.
In the ring, Killua circled, all predatory grace. His opponent, Kitagawa, didn't hesitate. "I won't underestimate you!" he shouted, launching a blistering whip-kick.
"Tch." Killua dropped into a crouch, then moved. His speed was a shock. His hand shot out, fingers curled, nails gleaming like razors, aimed squarely at Kitagawa's neck.
Kitagawa's eyes blew wide with primal terror. He twisted desperately in mid-air. They passed each other in a blur.
Silence, then a spatter of red on Kitagawa's collar. The referee's flag shot up. "Valid hit! Killua scores!"
Kevin's frown deepened in the cheering crowd. A child's combat skills are leagues beyond mine. This world is no joke.
The match became a brutal tutorial. Killua pressed the attack, each movement efficient and lethally precise. The score climbed rapidly: 8 to 2. Killua was toying with a superior opponent, learning and adapting on the fly.
"This Kitagawa is stronger than the last one, right? How is Killua dominating?" a fan beside Kevin wondered.
An older spectator chuckled, puffing out his chest. "You don't get it. That kid gets stronger every fight. I've watched him climb for two months. Last time he just… gave up. Maybe a stamina thing, he's just a kid."
"His attacks are all meant to kill," a man muttered disapprovingly nearby.
"He's a Zoldyck," the fan replied, as if that explained everything. "Assassins. From next door."
The conversation was cut short by a sharp whistle from the arena.
"FATAL SCORE! THE WINNER IS KILLUA!"
On the canvas, Kitagawa was curled around a bleeding wound in his abdomen. Killua stood untouched, save for a little dust on his clothes. He flashed a brilliant, innocent smile and waved to the screaming fans, the picture of a child star.
Watching the doctors rush to Kitagawa's side, then to Killua's beaming, victorious face, Kevin felt a chill that had nothing to do with the arena's air conditioning. This was the crucible. This was the level of sheer, refined violence he had to not only survive but master. The path to his own ability wasn't just about synergy or power; it had to be something that could stand firm in a world where six-year-olds were professional, celebrated killers.
He left the arena, the crowd's roar fading behind him, his mind quieter but more focused than ever. The question was no longer just what his ability should be. It was what it needed to be to survive here.
Kevin stood before the registration desk of Heaven's Arena, filling out forms as the staff member beside him efficiently outlined the rules.
The higher the floor, the greater the prize money. Upon passing the 100th floor, contestants were provided with dedicated living quarters, equivalent to a luxury hotel suite. Every ten floors marked a tier, with the 100th and 200th floors acting as major watersheds. Battles above the 200th floor were no longer for cash prizes but for prestige and honor.
The monetary rewards were staggering. Post-100th floor, prizes reached the millions of jenny. By the 150th floor, they climbed to tens of millions. The 190th floor awarded a flat 200 million. No wonder this place draws fighters from all over the world, Kevin thought. It's a colossal money pit.
"Do you wish to fight immediately?" the clerk asked.
"Is there a match available now?" Kevin was slightly surprised at the efficiency.
The staff member nodded. "If you consent, we can schedule one right away."
"Then arrange it."
He was swiftly escorted by an attendant to the combatant's area. As a freshly registered first-floor fighter, his assigned arena was one of the smaller, more numerous ones. Yet, even here, the spectator stands were nearly full. During his brief wait in the competitor's lounge, watching the ongoing matches on a monitor, he understood why. Gambling. It was the lifeblood of the Arena's economy. Spectators constantly scouted these lower-tier fights, betting on fighters they identified as having potential.
The matches he watched were brutally short. Either one fighter overwhelmingly dominated for a quick knockout, or both were amateurs, clumsily trading blows until the point limit was reached.
"Kevin, you're up."
He stood and walked toward the arena entrance. In these lower-level, high-turnover matches, there were no flamboyant announcers, only a rotating crew of referees.
Stepping onto the platform, he finally got a clear look at his opponent. A young man, likely around his own apparent age—early twenties. This body was only twenty, after all, placing him squarely in the 'young prodigy' demographic.
"Another one with white hair?" Kevin muttered inwardly. His opponent was tall and lean, with a striking mane of long white hair partially tucked under a classic newsboy cap. Another assassin family? White hair, while not unheard of in this world, was uncommon enough to trigger his suspicion.
"Hello. My name is Kite," the young man offered with a polite, almost gentle tone.
Doesn't seem the type. Yet, Kevin did not relax. A subtle tension coiled in his gut, and he instinctively narrowed his focus, his aura perception sharpening.
His frown deepened. Terrible luck. His opponent was undoubtedly a Nen user. Among the dozens of fighters he'd observed today, he'd only sensed a handful. And yet, in his very first match, he drew one.
Do Nen users somehow attract each other? he wondered, settling into a ready stance. "My name is Kevin."
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