HxH: Ryomen... Satoru?

Even the announcer was stunned for a few seconds before rushing over to check on the other contestant's condition.

His breathing was faint, with more air going out than coming in. Forget about whether he could stand up and continue fighting; if medical attention wasn't administered quickly, this might very well be the opponent's last match ever.

"Contestant #2064 has lost the ability to continue. Contestant #1999 is the winner!" the announcer declared loudly.

"You can skip directly to the 50th floor. I have high hopes for you," the announcer said, handing a certificate to the young man still standing on the stage with an enthusiastic smile.

Young, good-looking, strong, and seemingly a bit unruly—these were the traits that made a contestant a crowd favorite in the Heavens Arena. It meant one thing: hype.

Take, for example, one of the most popular fighters above the 200th floor—the magician Hisoka.

His fights were spectacular, his techniques brutally efficient with a flair of magical mystery and romanticism. Combined with his indescribable personality, his matches always had fans scrambling for tickets.

Heavens Arena made a fortune off him.

As someone who dealt with all kinds of contestants every day, the announcer felt certain that the white-haired, tattooed boy in front of him would become another crowd-puller adored by the masses.

"Ah."

The boy, Cyr, accepted the certificate without sparing even a single extra word. He turned and walked straight off the stage.

As he descended, most of the audience stared at him with a mix of subtlety and shock.

Cyr ignored all their gazes, lost in his own thoughts as he walked.

From here on, he decided, he wouldn't use any special techniques or abilities—not even Nen.

He'd fight purely with his fists. Of course, he'd have to control his strength carefully.

He needed to let everyone believe he was somewhat skilled, but not too strong.

Otherwise... the betting odds would tank.

And if that happened, he wouldn't be able to make much money betting on himself.

If necessary, he could even pretend to lose a few times and start over from the bottom. That should still secure him some winnings.

But… wasn't that kind of embarrassing? Maybe he could just disguise himself with a new identity and re-enter the tournament instead.

Besides, there shouldn't be any rules in the Heavens Arena forbidding contestants from betting on themselves... right?

The receptionist behind the counter spoke in an apologetic tone: "Sorry, but only spectators are allowed to place bets. Contestants themselves cannot participate in betting." Her response was polished and professional, tinged with an air of familiarity as if she'd handled this kind of request countless times before.

It seemed Cyr wasn't the first person to think of betting on himself for a big payday.

But that didn't matter—he had other methods.

If he couldn't bet on himself, he'd just bet on others.

Cyr listened to the explanation expressionlessly, then pulled out some cash and bought tickets to the next five matches.

Now, as a spectator, he had the right to place bets.

"This one, this one, and this one... I'll bet on them to win," he said, pointing to his chosen contestants.

He placed his money on each of them.

"??!!" Even the experienced receptionist, who had seen her fair share of unusual bettors, froze for a moment.

Placing bets wasn't uncommon, but most people only bet on one match at a time. Who bets on five matches at once?

"Ah… sure, I'll process that for you. Here are your betting slips." She quickly masked her surprise and deftly typed into her computer, handing him the slips after a moment.

"Hm…" Cyr accepted the slips, already calculating how much he could potentially win.

He'd chosen the five contestants using his Six Eyes ability, selecting the ones whose life energy was stronger than their opponents'.

He had wagered 50 million on each of the five contestants. The odds weren't particularly high, mostly around 2 to 1. If all went well, he'd make just over 100 million in total.

Of course, there was always the chance that a stronger contestant might be upset by a weaker one.

If someone was useless enough to lose like that, well, there wasn't much he could do.

In any case, it'd be a small profit. He wouldn't lose his initial investment.

"A 200 million from reaching the 200th floor, the 200 million from Maro, and the money I'll win from these bets... that'll make 500 million. After a few more rounds of betting, I'll have 800 million," Cyr thought to himself.

"Too bad they don't allow bets over 10 million... Well, it is what it is."

Taking the Jenny prize from his first match, Cyr bought a can of juice. Carrying it, he headed toward the elevator.

The first match's winnings were just enough to cover the juice—he couldn't even afford the chocolate bar next to it.

"What floor are you on?" Cyr asked, pressing the elevator's up button while glancing at the silent Maro behind him.

"...The 20th floor," Maro replied hesitantly, his voice subdued.

His performance had been lackluster, so he'd only made it to the 20th floor.

Right then, the elevator doors opened.

"...Pathetic," Cyr remarked flatly as he stepped inside.

Maro hurriedly followed him.

Inside, a neatly dressed elevator attendant stood ready to operate the controls.

The elevator buttons were labeled in increments of ten.

"Welcome to the Heavens Arena. Each ten floors is a division..." The attendant began warmly, her smile professional as she observed the two newcomers.

One of them looked like a mere child, yet he'd already reached the 50th floor.

"If you can't reach the 200th floor within a week, just stay here forever," the white-haired boy declared calmly.

The blond-haired boy lowered his head, responding with a subdued "...Okay."

With insufficient strength, even tagging along with an adult would only make him dead weight.

Neither of them paid any attention to what the elevator attendant was saying.

"...Good luck with your matches," she muttered wearily, offering her obligatory blessing.

Maro headed to the 20th floor, while Cyr moved up to the 50th floor.

From Cyr's perspective, the skill level of the contestants here didn't seem much different from those on the lower levels.

The announcement came quickly over the loudspeakers.

"Contestants Hill and Martin, please report to Arena C on the 59th floor—"

The only real difference from the lower floors was that names were now used instead of contestant numbers. Additionally, each arena only had one ring, unlike the lower levels where each arena had 16 rings. It all seemed a bit more formal here.

Hill was the alias Cyr had chosen. Using his real name in another world wasn't an option—what if he ended up cursed by some bizarre ability?

"59th floor, Arena C..." he murmured as he arrived at the arena. His opponent, a man, was already standing on the platform.

The spectators and announcer were all in place.

"First-time contestant Hill, who has made his way directly to the 50th floor, versus Martin, who has fought his way here with multiple consecutive wins. Who do you think will emerge victorious?"

The announcer worked hard to hype up the crowd as the large screen displayed Cyr and Martin's portraits.

Below each portrait, a set of numbers scrolled and then stopped.

Under the white-haired, blue-eyed boy's portrait, the odds were displayed as 2.1. Under Martin's portrait, the odds were 1.3.

Clearly, most of the audience believed Martin had a higher chance of winning.

After all, Martin looked broad-chested, muscular, and built like he could take on four of Cyr at once.

Standing in front of Cyr, Martin's massive frame completely blocked the smaller boy from view.

"A bunch of idiots who only know how to gauge strength by muscles," Cyr muttered, staring at his own odds on the screen for a long moment before looking away.

Though, in truth, the odds could've been even higher. He had asked Maro to place a bet on him outside the arena.

He wasn't allowed to bet on himself, but having someone else do it for him? That wasn't against the rules.

°°°

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