Jon's opponent had finally been confirmed—Sadaso.
A man with an ashen face, frail-looking and sickly pale, like someone who had danced too long with insomnia and regret. Just one glance and you could tell: this was a man who hadn't known restraint in his youth. Late nights, indulgent living, and the kind of stubborn pride that led people to ruin. It was said that nowadays, he couldn't look in the mirror without tearing up. Rumor had it he'd only survived one particularly bad fight because both his hands were shattered—an ironic twist of fate that might have saved his life.
Sadaso belonged to the notorious trio of scoundrels known unofficially as The Disabled Combo, a band of bottom-feeding veterans who lurked around the registration desk on the 200th floor. Their mission? Hunt newbies.
They didn't care how they won—tricks, threats, kidnapping, or underhanded blackmail. In the original story, they'd kidnapped Zushi just to force Killua into a corner. That ended... poorly for them. When faced with Killua's calm, childlike threat of murder, they backed down without a fight.
Still, they never get discouraged just because they are weak. These parasites remained on the 200th floor, squatting there year after year, ambushing greenhorns too new to know what Nen even was. They were weak—comparatively speaking—but persistent. And most of all, they were careful. They knew better than to provoke real monsters.
They were the Tonpas of Heavens Arena—fakers who played dirty, profited off ignorance, and never dared climb higher.
But this time... they'd made a fatal mistake.
The "newbie" they thought they'd bagged wasn't a lamb at all. He was a wolf in sheep's clothing. A Stand user with patience, power, and a plan. Ever since Jon had made up his mind to teach them a lesson, their fate had already been sealed. There was no path to victory for them.
Jon was more than confident. Stone Free may still be in its juvenile stage, not yet fully matured into the fearsome entity it would one day become—but it was powerful enough. As long as he wasn't facing a pure Enhancement-type Nen user in a brutal, head-on clash, Jon didn't need to fear anyone on this floor.
"Hehehe... rookie," Sadaso sneered, flashing a crooked, almost painful smile, the kind that looked like it hurt his face. "Just sit back, relax, and become my stepping stone to challenge the Floor Master."
He said it to Jon's back, as if savoring his assumed superiority. He was unaware that Jon hadn't even considered him a real opponent.
Most people arriving at the 200th floor didn't register for a match immediately. They paused, they observed, and—more often than not—they gave up.
Newcomers would sit in the audience for one, maybe two fights, wide-eyed and horrified. "What the hell is happening?" they would whisper. Attacks that left no visible motion but resulted in massive damage, fighters dodging unseen strikes, opponents crumpling to the ground as if struck by invisible fists—these weren't just fights anymore. They were godlike clashes of will and aura, of techniques the uninitiated couldn't begin to understand.
Nen.
For those who didn't understand it, Heavens Arena might as well have transformed into a mythological battleground. One guy punches the arena floor, and suddenly there's a crater the size of a parking lot—how do you compete with that?
No thanks. For most, it just wasn't worth dying for a title.
Above the 200th floor, every match was recorded, archived, and studied. Fighters learned about their opponents before entering the arena. Naive and reckless hopefuls were few and far between.
But Jon was different. He was that rare case.
When Jon entered his assigned room, he was impressed.
A luxurious penthouse suite, easily comparable to top-tier hotels back on Earth. A massive 50-inch LCD screen dominated the living space. A high-end computer hummed quietly on the corner desk. Golden curtains draped elegantly from the ceiling to the floor, where full-length windows provided a jaw-dropping panoramic view of the entire city skyline. Sleek, modern, and beautiful—it was like something out of a dream.
The cabinets were stocked with gourmet snacks and exotic wines. Jon sampled one and was pleasantly surprised—it had a perfect balance of sweetness and texture. If he needed anything, he could call room service. The Heavens Arena prided itself on keeping fighters comfortable—after all, comfort meant contentment, and content fighters fought more often.
Above the 200th floor, there were no traditional prize pools—but the betting revenue was another story entirely.
Tickets to high-level matches cost a fortune. Some were so exclusive they were sold in underground markets at absurd prices. The wealthy, the powerful, and the eccentric all gathered to watch bloodsport at its highest level. Bets poured in like waterfalls.
Even though this match wasn't considered high-profile—Sadaso was weak, and Jon had intentionally kept a low profile—billions of Jenny had still pooled into the system.
Jon, ever the strategist, had placed a significant bet on himself. With odds hovering around 10:1, the payout would be astronomical.
He pulled the golden curtains shut, basking in the warm glow that filled the room. Then he collapsed onto the velvet-soft bed and let out a deep breath.
His phone buzzed.
[The match will officially begin at 9:00 AM tomorrow.]
That was it. The official notice. Jon tossed the phone onto the bed, ordered food, and waited. Twenty minutes later, the staff arrived—polite, fast, and efficient.
After finishing his meal, Jon stretched, did a quick 20-minute pre-sleep routine, and went to bed.
No stress. No anxiety. No fear.
Just sleep. As if tomorrow was just another lazy Sunday.
The next morning, Jon woke up refreshed. No leftover fatigue. No nerves. He cleaned up, had a light breakfast, and made his way to the arena.
He and Sadaso emerged slowly from opposite ends of the passage. The arena was vast, concrete and steel echoing beneath every step. A single referee waited in the center.
Above them, a young woman in a Heavens Arena uniform stood on the elevated commentary stage, holding a mic. She beamed professionally, ready to warm up the crowd. Her voice would guide the energy of the match.
Interestingly, despite Jon's low exposure, the editors had done a great job cutting together highlights from his previous battles. Even without being able to see his Stand, they made him look impressively mysterious, lending an air of intrigue to his style. It wasn't easy to pull that off, especially with all the 'invisible' hits.
Despite being considered 'low-tier' by 200th floor standards, the audience cheered loudly.
Jon's odds remained long: 10.x to 1.x in favor of Sadaso.
Over 80% of the crowd had bet on Sadaso. To them, Jon was just another cocky newbie walking into a slaughter.
But that was fine by Jon.
Because Jon had bet every last Jenny he had on himself.
One last quiet payday, before the curtain rose and the odds-makers readjusted in future matchups.
The battlefield had been set.
Jon and Sadaso stood across from one another in the spotlight of the Heavens Arena, the roar of the crowd crashing around them like waves against stone.
"Both participants are permitted to use weapons," the referee announced flatly, scanning the fighters with a cold, practiced gaze. "If there are no objections, then—gamble your pride, your dignity... and begin the battle!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the referee vanished in a blur of motion, wisely fleeing the arena floor before things turned deadly. Battles at this level were no joke. Spectators watched for thrills, but no one sane wanted to be caught between two Nen users in combat.
The arena exploded into noise. Camera drones hovered above, capturing every angle for the live broadcast. On the massive screen above, the match zoomed in on the two fighters—one seasoned and smug, the other cloaked and calm.
Sadaso smirked, exuding confidence as he remained still, letting his aura seep into the air. His pale, sleep-deprived face twisted into a mocking grin. "Heh... Rookie, you're quick to step up. Now be a good boy and receive the baptism of a senior~."
Instead of rushing in, Sadaso took his time—walking toward Jon. Deliberate, slow, and heavy steps. This was a mental tactic he had perfected: psychologically pressure newcomers into overextending, showing openings, and panicking. He wanted Jon to feel small, to feel trapped.
But Jon didn't even flinch. He stood still, arms relaxed, eyes locked on Sadaso, his breathing steady. No fear. No hesitation.
Then, Jon moved. He, too, began walking forward. Silent. Step by step, he closed the gap, matching Sadaso's pace.
"The distance is shrinking! Still no blows exchanged—what are they doing?" the commentator's voice rang across the stadium, keeping the energy alive. "Is this a mental game or...?"
The audience held its collective breath, the tension becoming almost suffocating.
Jon was unusually covered by a large hood today, shadowing his face, concealing the strange presence that nestled on his forehead—a grotesque, green visage: Epitaph.
Sadaso couldn't see it. No one could. But Jon could see everything.
He tilted his head slightly as a vision flickered in his mind.
—A flash of the future.—
He saw himself being restrained mid-movement by something invisible. No attacker in sight. That could only mean one thing.
Nen ability. Emission-type. Range-based.
Jon's body shifted suddenly to the left, sidestepping nothing—but in truth, dodging the attack his future self had already fallen under.
But to the audience and even Sadaso, it looked bizarre. No visible attack had occurred. Yet Jon moved with purpose, with instinct.
"Huh?" Sadaso's smirk twitched. "He dodged...? Tch."
He whispered again, "Tighty-whities, tighty-whities!"—a bizarre chant, urging his Invisible Hand to attack Jon again. It was a remote-control Nen construct that could only be seen with Gyo, making it invisible to the average observer—and to Jon, who didn't visibly display any Nen mastery.
But Jon wasn't average.
With King Crimson's Epitaph guiding him, and Atum's mind-reading aiding his predictions, Jon gracefully dodged again, and again, weaving through invisible attacks like he could see the wind. Every step was perfectly timed. Every motion preordained.
Whispers spread across the audience.
"How is he doing this?" People in the stands pondered as they were not capable of seeing what was going on.
'He's not even using Gyo... is he predicting the attacks?' Sadaso thought befuddled.
From the perspective of the crowd, Jon was just flailing around or dancing in thin air, while Sadaso stared grimly at a foe who somehow kept dodging the undodgeable.
"Is Jon... just lucky?" the commentator wondered aloud. "Or is this some advanced form of martial instinct!?"
Sadaso gritted his teeth. His confidence cracked. "Impossible. He's a rookie. This isn't possible!"
He retracted his Invisible Hand.
Fine, he thought. Let him get closer. Once he's within arm's reach, he won't have time to react. He'll be finished in an instant.
Sadaso crouched slightly, preparing to ambush Jon at close range. Like a coiled snake in the grass, waiting for the final, killing strike.
Jon stepped into the trap—without hesitation.
Sadaso's Invisible Hand lashed out again—
"Stone Free."
A sudden burst of blue light exploded in front of Jon as his Stand manifested. Sadaso's eyes widened in disbelief. The construct was humanoid, lithe and powerful, wrapped in strings and radiating raw energy. It moved without warning.
"W-what the hell is that?!"
Stone Free didn't wait for a response.
"ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA!"
Blows rained down like a hailstorm. Sadaso barely activated the Invisible Hand before it was shattered under the sheer onslaught. Jon's Stand was merciless—each punch was a thunderclap, every strike a hammer blow against Sadaso's weak Ten.
Sadaso tried to retreat, but it was already too late. Jon was prepared.
With a flick of his wrist, Stone Free's threads unraveled and coiled around Sadaso's limbs, binding him like a cocoon.
"You're not flying anywhere," Jon muttered, narrowing his eyes beneath his hood. "Yare yare daze…"
Then came the real punishment.
"ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA—!!"
The arena shook with the impact. Dust exploded from the floor as Sadaso was pummelled endlessly. The audience couldn't even process what was happening—all they saw was Jon's silhouette standing tall as his foe was enveloped by a blur of fists and fury.
After a full ten seconds of relentless beatdown, Jon released the cocoon. The strings unwrapped and Sadaso collapsed to the ground, utterly unrecognizable. His face was swollen beyond recognition. His limbs twitched in unconscious spasms.
If it weren't for Jon sensing his shallow breathing, even he would've believed the man was dead.
A beat of silence. Then—
Boom.
The arena erupted.
Cheers, screams, applause—the crowd lost its mind. They didn't know what they had just witnessed, but they knew it was epic. Jon had gone from unknown to unstoppable in a single match.
In the stands, Sadaso's teammates—Gido and Riehlvelt—exchanged a horrified look, then bolted without a word. Abandoning Sadaso completely, their dreams of bullying newbies shattered on the arena floor.
The announcer's voice rang out, barely containing her own astonishment.
"Winner: JON!!!"