Jon stood frozen in place, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jawline. His mind raced, replaying what had just happened over and over.
This... this was the closest he had ever come to dying.
In all his time fighting at Heavens Arena, he had faced dangerous opponents—fighters with flashy techniques, dirty tricks, or raw brute strength—but very few ever truly aimed to kill. The mortality rate on the lower and middle floors was kept in check by rules and regulations. Most combatants fought to win, not to execute.
But Killua... Killua was different.
His every motion, every shift in stance, carried with it the chilling weight of lethal intent. There was no hesitation in his movements. No restraint. Only purpose—cold, clinical, and final. He wasn't just trained to fight—he was raised to kill.
Jon didn't break the "No Stand" rule he'd set for himself out of pride or recklessness. He broke it because he had no other choice.
If I hadn't summoned Stone Free... I'd be bleeding out right now.
It wasn't about honor anymore. It was survival.
And Killua's speed… monstrous. Jon hadn't even seen him move in some moments—he just felt the wind shift before the strikes came like lightning.
Suddenly, Killua raised his hand, fingers twitching.
Jon instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, heart pounding.
Is this it? A final technique? A family assassination move?
He wouldn't put it past the Zoldyck family. They were legendary assassins, said to have killed royalty and warlords alike in complete silence. Their techniques were mysterious, dangerous, and more than a little terrifying.
But then—
"I surrender."
Killua's voice cut through the silence of the arena like a blade. Calm, flat, emotionless.
Jon blinked, stunned.
Huh?
Before he could process what had just happened, the referee confirmed the match's conclusion. A small click from the corner of the stage signaled the match record had been updated. Jon was handed a printed slip from a nearby kiosk—his official pass to the next floor.
That's it? Just like that...?
Jon looked back at Killua, who had already turned away.
There was no trace of frustration or shame on Killua's face. Just a kind of resigned neutrality.
It was as if victory or defeat meant little to him.
But Jon knew. This kid's power was way beyond Floor 130. In fact, Killua's real strength probably exceeded that of fighters on Floor 150.
So why did he surrender?
Simple. Killua wasn't fighting to prove himself.
If he saw even a glimmer of doubt in his chances of victory, he didn't bother gambling. He simply chose to walk away.
Jon did know why, but Killua's seemingly erratic choices in battle were deeply influenced by something unnatural.
Years ago, Killua's older brother—Illumi—had implanted a needle deep into Killua's brain. A Nen-infused command, buried inside his skull like a parasite. It didn't control him overtly—but it whispered. It distorted his judgment. It made him subconsciously flee from fights against opponents he viewed as equal or stronger.
Against Jon—whose mysterious power had blasted him without warning—Killua's instincts flared like sirens. He couldn't predict Jon. He didn't understand the attack. And so, the needle's influence took over.
Killua's body moved on autopilot—retreat. Surrender. Survive.
And in truth, Killua was still not yet complete.His strength and technique were prodigious, but many of the Zoldyck family's deadliest arts—like "Snake Awakens" and advanced assassination footwork—were still years ahead of him. In this timeline, it was still five years before the events of the canon. He was raw talent, not a finished weapon.
That's why Killua hovered around Floor 150—strong enough to climb higher, but without the consistent wins or will to push through stronger, more cunning fighters. Reaching Floor 200? That would require time... and maybe a little luck.
Ironically, that same needle that held him back was also what kept him alive. It made him careful. It made him avoid serious injuries, even evade fatal Nen abilities that others might fall victim to.
Jon sighed, pocketing his pass. But his thoughts lingered on Killua.
He's strong. Maybe even the strongest I've fought so far.
Despite everything, Jon wanted to talk to him—to understand him. Maybe even befriend him.
He found Killua near the hallway exit and called out, "Hey! You're really strong. Why'd you give up?"
Killua didn't respond.
Instead, Jon felt it.
A chill. Like a cold breath brushing down his spine.
A wave of malice, heavy and unnatural, radiated from the audience stands above him.
He turned his head slowly—and saw him.
A tall, thin man with chalky green skin, wide lifeless eyes, and black nails piercing his face like cursed ornaments. His presence alone made the air feel heavy.
Illumi Zoldyck.
Even without introductions, Jon knew who it was. Killua's older brother. The source of that unnatural influence. A man twisted by obsession, capable of anything. And worst of all, he was staring directly at Jon.
This guy... he doesn't want Killua to have friends.
He thinks relationships weaken him.
Anyone who gets close... gets eliminated.
Jon's heart thumped uncomfortably.
Yeesh… What a killjoy.
He looked away.
I can't afford to make enemies like that. Not now. Not when I still don't have Nen.
Even if Jon used King Crimson—or any advanced ability from his arsenal—he wasn't confident in a victory. Illumi's strength was on par with Hisoka. Shalnark, another Manipulator-type user like Illumi, had been slaughtered by Hisoka without much effort. The gap between them was obvious.
I might have the talent. But I need training. Real training.
He remembered the promise. The teacher Robson said he would arrange—the one who was supposed to teach him Nen.
He dialed Robson immediately. "Hey, about that teacher…"
Robson just chuckled on the other end. "You're doing great. Patience."
Tch. I hate your silence.
Jon hung up and leaned against the wall. His eyes still trailed back to Killua.
We'll meet again, he thought.
Jon could only continue grinding through the lower-floor fighters, repeatedly challenging opponent after opponent. It was tedious, sure—but profitable. The gold coins rewarded for each victory were surprisingly generous, especially if he racked up win streaks.
By the end of the second day, his persistence had paid off.
He'd finally saved enough for a Universal Card.
Jon held the gleaming card between his fingers like it was a rare treasure chest. With anticipation bubbling in his chest, he activated it—eyes sparkling with hope.
Please be something cool. Something rare. Something practical.
The system flickered, and the result revealed itself in bold letters:
"Giorno Giovanna's Signature Outfit (Skin)"
Jon froze.
The projection of the outfit appeared in front of him in a glimmering holographic display.
It was...
A bright pink, heart-shaped chest-window top with golden accents and tight-fitting pants.
Jon stared at it in utter disbelief. He blinked.
This… this is the outfit of a Yankee pretty-boy star.I was expecting... I don't know, maybe some kind of battle armor or a stand buff? But this?!
He rubbed his eyes, hoping he was hallucinating.
Nope. Still the same flamboyant, chest-baring ensemble.
Okay, I can't even make this up. This thing is more revealing than the outfits you'd find at a host club in downtown Tokyo.I'm going to get sodomized by my seniors if I wear this around the training hall.
He gritted his teeth.
Giorno… I admire you, I really do. You're bold, composed, and ridiculously OP. But there's no way in hell I'm wearing this.
Yet what disturbed him even more was how nobody around Giorno in Part 5 seemed to react to this outfit. Not one comment. No side-eyes. Nothing.
Wait a second. Come to think of it… none of the Passione gangsters dressed normally either.
There was Abbacchio with purple lipstick and platform boots, Fugo who thought a shirt with holes the size of grapefruit was a good idea, and Bruno Bucciarati, the actual gang leader, who wore a skintight white suit with chest tattoos peeking through gold zippers.
...Actually, maybe in that context, Giorno's outfit wasn't the weirdest.
Jon sighed, trying to accept the surreal fashion logic of the JoJo universe. He studied the skin info again, hovering his cursor over the description.
Wait… this isn't just cosmetic?
His eyes widened.
[Special Skin Perk: Stand Boost Active]
"Giorno Giovanna's Signature Outfit: Only effective for Gold Experience. Required item for awakening Gold Experience Requiem."
Jon's jaw dropped.
Gold Experience Requiem.
One of the most broken Stands in the JoJo multiverse. A Stand that evolved after being pierced by the Stand Arrow. Speed? A. Power? A. Ability?
Return to Zero.
It nullified cause and effect itself. It erased your actions before they even happened. Diavolo, who could see the future with King Crimson, was reduced to an eternal purgatory—forever dying, never reaching the truth.
It was one of the very few Stands that could go toe-to-toe with Wonder of U or Made in Heaven.
Jon's opinion changed instantly.
Okay. Yeah. That's not so bad.I still don't have Gold Experience, but who cares? A man can dream, right?
He tucked the outfit neatly into his system backpack, pretending the moment of crisis never occurred. No one needed to know.
After a quick wash-up, Jon collapsed onto his bed. He was exhausted—mentally, physically, and emotionally.
His dreams that night? Chaotic. He dreamed of the cafeteria flooding with spicy sauce, and in the middle of it all, he was mercilessly beating the Ant King with a mop.
Hmm. It's just a dream… right?
Meanwhile, in a quiet room across the floor...
Killua sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hand.
A small, thin wound traced along his palm—no blood, just a faint line. His brows furrowed.
When… did this happen? During that fight? But I didn't see it coming. I didn't even see him move.It was like… I got hit by something invisible.
He clenched his fist, frustrated. As someone trained in precision and assassination, not being able to understand an enemy's attack drove him insane.
Who is this guy? What kind of technique was that?
He rolled onto his side, but sleep didn't come easily.
For the first time in a long while, Killua tossed and turned—haunted not by guilt, but by confusion.
At the same time, on the 215th Floor, in a dimly lit private room, a man sat alone, his face illuminated by the flicker of a computer screen.
On the monitor, a replay of Jon and Killua's match played silently.
The man puffed a final drag from his cigarette, then extinguished it slowly into an overflowing ashtray. With his other hand, he pressed pause on the video—stopping at the precise frame when Stone Free briefly appeared.
It was blurry. Barely noticeable. But he caught it.
A Nen beast of some kind?
"Interesting," he murmured, a slow grin creeping onto his face.
He pressed a button on the side.
"Initiate Ren. Give me one hundred orthodox punches."
From the shadows behind him, a voice answered crisply.
"Yes, Acting Master."