The arena thrummed with anticipation as the commentator's amplified voice boomed, "First to enter, from the tribal lands, the elegant but fierce 'Rage Striker'—Mito!"
The applause was polite, scattered. The man, dressed in ornate, patterned robes and holding what looked like a simple wooden staff, walked with solemn purpose to the center.
"And now, his opponent! The man whose victories and losses depend on his mood, emerging untainted even from defeat… the IMMOVABLE MOUNTAIN—KEVIN!!"
The reaction was volcanic. The title and his name were roared back by the crowd in a deafening chant. Kevin walked out with a relaxed gait, offering a casual wave to the stands, a stark contrast to his opponent's intensity.
"Why do they call him that?" a newcomer shouted over the din to a seasoned fan beside him.
The fan grinned. "Because he stands there. Like a mountain. No matter how hard they hit him, he doesn't budge or get hurt."
"If he's that strong, why'd it take him three months to get to this floor?" the newcomer pressed, knowing true powerhouses usually blitzed through the lower tiers.
"Because he lets them," the fan said with a knowing chuckle. "Wins, losses—it's all up to his whims. There's an art to it, you see. Only the sharp-eyed spectators really get it."
A purist nearby scoffed. "Don't listen to that. It's the gamblers who love him. His fights are unpredictable. The odds swing wildly. He's a thrill-seeker's dream."
Another seasoned observer cut in, offering a more technical analysis. "The real reason for the title is that no one has ever scored a down on him. No one's knocked him out. Opponents only win by points—effective strikes. And even when he loses, he walks off with maybe a little dust on his clothes. The winner is usually the one limping away, covered in bruises from the few hits Kevin did land." This quirk had bankrupted more than a few overconfident bettors in the early days.
The chatter in the stands meant nothing to the two men now facing each other. Kevin stood calmly, assessing his opponent. Mito had the dissipating aura of a non-Nen user, but his presence was focused, sharp. The "ordinary" wooden staff in his hand felt anything but.
Kevin simply raised a hand and beckoned.
Mito didn't need further invitation. He exploded forward, his speed a testament to the elite tier of the 150th floor. Finally, Kevin thought with a flicker of satisfaction.
The staff became a blur. A horizontal sweep aimed at his ribs was blocked by a raised forearm. A follow-up whip kick was met by Kevin's lifted shin. Mito's style was a furious, intricate storm—each attack flowed into the next, creating a seamless, pressurized assault.
Yet, every strike found Kevin waiting. A block, a parry, a deflection. It was a masterclass in defensive fundamentals.
Then, a subtle shift. In mid-swing, Mito torqued his body, the staff suddenly reversing its arc from a wide swing to a vicious, pinpoint thrust. It slipped through a microscopic gap in Kevin's guard and slammed squarely into his sternum.
THWACK!
"EFFECTIVE HIT!" the referee announced. The scoreboard flickered: 0 – 1.
For any normal fighter, such a blow to the center mass would wind them, crumple their defense, open them up for a finishing combo.
Kevin didn't move. He simply looked down at the point of impact, then back up at Mito, who had already fluidly retreated to a safe distance, his expression now one of wary confusion. The blow that should have been a fight-ender had yielded no reaction at all. No stagger, no gasp, not even a flinch.
Kevin reached up and casually brushed his hand over the spot on his chest. A faint, amused smile touched his lips. The message was clear: Is that all?
"Excellent technique," Kevin said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Normally, I'd love to have a good, drawn-out spar with you and then take the loss. But this time, I don't have the luxury of wasting time on a defeat."
The words, delivered with such casual arrogance, were a spark to tinder. Mito's composure shattered, replaced by a visible, simmering rage. This was a new level of disrespect.
"Hmm?" Kevin's own focus sharpened. Something shifted. The aura around Mito… it intensified. It wasn't the controlled flow of a Nen user, but a raw, explosive surge, as if his very life force was being violently stoked. His manifested presence seemed to swell, yet by all metrics, he shouldn't have possessed such conscious control.
"RAGE STRIKE!" the commentator roared, naming the phenomenon.
Mito's fingers tightened around the wooden staff until the knuckles turned white. Then he moved. His speed nearly doubled, a furious blur closing the distance. Kevin raised an arm to block the incoming strike.
CRACK!
Pain, sharp and distinct, lanced through his forearm. The force behind the blow was categorically different—significantly stronger.
So, I can't just tank this one, Kevin realized. The path to victory required a shift.
As the enraged storm of attacks descended, Kevin's body finally reacted. Not with a grand technique, but with an instinctive, fluid economy of motion. He weaved, a subtle shift of his torso letting a thrust whistle past his ribs. A slight pivot allowed a sweep to miss his legs by a hair's breadth. And in the fleeting opening created by Mito's over-committed lunge, Kevin's right fist shot forward—a clean, direct line driven by the coiled power of his enhanced physique.
It connected squarely with Mito's solar plexus.
BANG!
The sound was a sickening crunch of impact. Mito's eyes bulged, all air and will to fight blasted from his body. He was lifted off his feet and hurled backward, a trail of spit and stomach fluid arcing through the air as he crashed to the canvas and slid in a limp heap to the very edge of the ring.
"OH! Kevin takes the initiative! A devastating counter! Fighter Mito is down! Could this be a one-punch KO?!" the commentator screamed.
The referee sprinted to Mito's side, beginning the count, checking for consciousness.
Kevin, however, stood still. He looked down at his own fist, his brow furrowed in deep thought, not triumph. In the moment of impact, he had felt it—a faint, but undeniable craving. A subtle pull, akin to the longing he felt when touching the special protein stone or the Two-Headed Wolf's horn. The sensation was fleeting, but real.
His opponent… possesses a precious 'material'? The realization was a shock, completely unforeseen.
On the mat, Mito groaned. With a Herculean effort, he forced himself onto one elbow, then to his knees.
"HE'S UP! Fighter Mito is back on his feet! The fight continues!"
The crowd, invested in the drama, roared its approval. "Get him!" "Don't give up!" "I've bet my life savings on you!"
But Mito, one hand clamped over his screaming abdomen, his face a mask of agony, only had eyes for Kevin, who hadn't moved an inch from the center of the ring. The message was clear. Slowly, trembling, Mito raised his free hand.
"I… surrender."
The fight was over. The arena erupted in the chaotic cheers of winners and the groans of losers.
In the player's lounge, Killua watched, wide-eyed. "Is his body made of steel?" he whispered, equal parts baffled and impressed.
As evening painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, Mito limped out of the infirmary, gingerly rubbing his tender midsection. The doctor had said it was severe bruising, possibly a cracked rib. He knew he was lucky; the blow could have been far worse.
"That young man… he's a monster. Solid as forged metal," he muttered to himself.
"Are you talking about me?"
The voice from the dim hallway made Mito jump. He turned to see Kevin leaning casually against the wall by the exit.
Recovering his composure, Mito asked, wary but not hostile, "Why are you here? Is there something you need?" He didn't peg Kevin as the type for post-victory gloating.
Kevin pushed off the wall, his expression serious. "Hmm. Do you have a moment to talk?"
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