"When is your registered fight?" Kevin asked.
"September 21st. A little over a month from now."
"No wonder you were in a rush," Kevin nodded. "But don't worry now. You've awakened your Nen. At worst, you'll lose your first match up there, but you won't be completely defenseless against their 'Baptism'." He spoke casually, but it was the truth. From his observations, the true lethality on the 200th floor came from the mismatch between Nen users and non-users. When both fighters wielded aura, outright kills became far rarer; it was an arena, not a death match, and unnecessary murder brought its own set of complications. That said, the fighters above the 200th floor were a more… eccentric and vicious bunch overall.
He clapped Mito on the shoulder. "Today is only… August… the…"
"The 14th," Mito supplied.
"Right, the 14th. You've got over a month. I'm still learning myself, but teaching you the basics shouldn't be a problem."
Mito nodded, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. Mastering Nen had indeed given him a lifeline.
"Is your health not good?" Kevin suddenly asked, his gaze drifting to a corner of the living room.
"Huh? Oh, that." Mito followed his look to a sizable stash of medicine. "Those are for my clansmen. I came out partly to buy medicine for my son—his eyes and legs aren't strong. I'm getting some for others while I'm at it."
"You have a son?!" Kevin's shock was genuine. Mito didn't look particularly old, maybe around Jin's age… and come to think of it, did Jin even have a family? He didn't seem the type.
"Hahaha!" Mito laughed at Kevin's expression. "My son is thirteen. A good, smart kid." His face lit up with paternal pride.
"Alright then, I'll leave you to it. I'll find you when I'm free. Practice the basics I showed you."
The next day. Heaven's Arena, 175th Floor, Arena A.
The stands were a roaring sea of sound, chanting two names in a frenzied chorus.
"IMMOVABLE MOUNTAIN!"
"WHITE CAT!"
Killua, stepping out of the competitor's tunnel, scowled at the noise. "Damn it, why does his title sound so much cooler?!" The disparity was obvious.
Kevin walked calmly to the center of the ring. They faced each other, no words exchanged.
"BEGIN!"
At the command, Kevin simply stood still, hands in his pockets, and gave Killua a casual, beckoning wave.
"Tch." Killua clicked his tongue in annoyance. After yesterday's encounter, he was fairly certain victory was out of reach. But if he couldn't win, he'd at least make Kevin bleed. His pride demanded it.
He began to circle Kevin, his movements slow and deliberate, his sharp eyes cataloging every minute shift in Kevin's posture.
Kevin remained utterly still, a faint smile on his lips, the picture of relaxed indifference. His nonchalance only stoked Killua's irritation.
Gradually, Killua's circling slowed. Then, his body seemed to blur. Multiple afterimages trailed behind him, creating the illusion of several Killuas moving in sync.
"It's Killua's signature move—Phantom Step! A clone-like technique! How will Kevin respond?" the commentator screamed.
The crowd erupted. This was the 'cat' in 'White Cat'—observant, patient, toying with its prey before the strike.
"Impressive," Kevin murmured, genuine admiration in his tone. He could confirm Killua wasn't using Nen. This was pure, refined physical technique and misdirection.
In other words, this was an illusion created through pure skill, likely exploiting principles of visual deception and extreme speed. Regardless, it was worthy of the word "impressive," even if Kevin had already discerned its mechanics. Choosing Killua as a sparring partner had indeed been a wise decision.
Soon, Kevin was surrounded by the swirling phantoms of Killua's Phantom Step.
A faint breeze stirred the air.
Swish!
Killua's hand shot out from the blur, fingers fused into a blade-like edge, aimed with lethal precision at Kevin's side. The strike didn't land. Kevin's hand moved, not with blinding speed but with uncanny timing, intercepting Killua's wrist. A simple twist and flick of his own wrist sent Killua hurtling through the air.
Killua twisted in mid-flight, landing with feline grace and skidding to a halt, his balance instantly recovered. This time, he didn't resume his cautious circling. Instead, he exploded forward again, a storm of motion. He weaved, feinted, and launched a furious barrage of attacks from dizzying angles—each strike aimed at a vital point, each movement blisteringly fast, a masterpiece of offensive pressure.
Kevin defended with an economy of motion that bordered on indifference. A raised forearm blocked a thrust. A grasping hand caught a kick. He even allowed a few strikes to land on his torso, absorbing them with no visible effect.
The furious assault ended as quickly as it began. The rhythm had been broken, absorbed, and now belonged to Kevin.
Kevin brushed a bit of nonexistent dust from his sleeve. Killua had retreated again, putting distance between them as he caught his breath.
"You tore my clothes," Kevin said, a smile playing on his lips as he examined the neat, blade-like slits in his fabric. "I was quite fond of this outfit."
The words, delivered with such casual amusement, made Killua's hackles rise.
"Don't be in such a rush," Kevin continued. "It's my turn now."
Before he'd even finished speaking, Killua had already instinctually leaped back several more meters.
"Let's see how well I learned, shall we?"
As the words hung in the air, Kevin's posture shifted. He dropped into a stance eerily reminiscent of Killua's own, a predatory coil. Then he was moving. He wasn't a blur of afterimages, but a single, focused line of motion—a leopard closing on its prey. Kevin's right hand was formed into a knife-hand. He wasn't enhancing it with aura, but the intent behind it was palpable, menacing.
This move is...!
In the stands, the gloomy man with black hair straightened almost imperceptibly, his hollow eyes widening a fraction.
"That kid has lost," Mito murmured beside him, having arrived to watch. Now that he could sense aura, he could confirm Kevin wasn't using it for the attack. But the sheer speed and precision of the movement were more than enough.
Dodge! Killua's mind screamed at him.
Swish!
The sound of air being cleaved filled the arena.
Killua's body tensed to move, but it was too late. He found himself rooted, frozen not by fear, but by the sheer, overwhelming certainty of the attack's trajectory. Kevin was already beside him. The knife-hand didn't strike Killua's body. It brushed past his ear with feather-light contact.
A thin, crimson line appeared on Killua's cheek. A single bead of blood welled up, then traced a slow, stark path down his pale skin.
Kevin relaxed his stance. The hand that had delivered the near-strike came up and gave Killua's shoulder a gentle, almost friendly pat. He said nothing. He simply turned and began walking toward the edge of the platform.
Just as his foot was about to step off the ring, Killua, who had been staring at the floor, slowly raised his hand. His voice, when it came, was quiet but clear in the sudden hush of the arena.
"I surrender."
His eyes were wide, unblinking. Cold sweat plastered his white hair to his forehead. For a moment, he had felt it—the icy breath of the abyss, the genuine threat of oblivion. He had been utterly convinced he was about to die, only to realize in the final instant that it had been… just a phantom of his own perception, conjured by the sheer lethality of the feint.
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