The airship journey from Jappon to the different continent where Heavens Arena stood felt long, a steady drone of engines high above the world. This was a completely new landmass for me, vast and unfamiliar. The cost of the ticket, a hefty sum I'd paid with some of my carefully hoarded Jenny, served as a sharp, immediate reminder of my need for reliable operating funds. Being a Hunter might grant privileges, but the practicalities of travel and resources were very real. Definitely need to address the Jenny situation soon, I reaffirmed to myself, looking out at the unfamiliar coastline appearing below.
As the airship finally began its descent towards my destination, the sprawling city housing the famed Heavens Arena, I caught my reflection for a moment in the polished window of a ground transport vehicle waiting on the tarmac below. Twelve years old, the red hair and green eyes still striking, but the last traces of childhood softness were rapidly giving way to the lean hardness forged by years of Dad's relentless, brutal training. My trusty travel boots remained, scuffed but durable, but they were paired now with dark, durable trousers that had a sharper cut than my old island shorts, and a simple white sleeveless athletic shirt was barely visible under a well-cut, dark grey jacket designed for fluid movement. On my back, a small, practical backpack held my few essentials. My eyes flickered briefly to the single, simple metallic stud glinting in my left ear – a permanent fixture I'd painstakingly materialized myself using the rudimentary Conjuration skills I'd practiced alongside everything else during my Hatsu Foundation training. It wasn't just decoration; it was tied directly to the core of my developing ability.
Heavens Arena itself loomed large as I approached, a colossal, cylindrical structure piercing the sky, its sheer scale breathtaking. But it was the sheer, pulsating mass of humanity surrounding its base that truly took my breath away, a sight and sound far beyond anything in Dolle Harbor or even Swardani City. It felt less like a sporting arena and more like a city-wide festival or a massive, ongoing rally dedicated to combat. People streamed in and out of the various entrances constantly, a never-ending river of bodies. Vendors hawked wares from colorful stalls, their shouts adding to the din. Onlookers gathered in excited knots around outdoor screens showing live fights, the air thick with noise, energy, and the distant, muffled roar from inside the tower. The collective aura leakage here was immense, a chaotic, vibrant wave of anticipation, excitement, and raw ambition.
Navigating the crowd and finding the registration area for new competitors took time and patience. The queue was immense, snaking far back from the entrance desks, a multi-layered line of hopeful fighters. The wait was long, filled with the murmurs and nervous energy of applicants sizing each other up. Once I finally reached the front, however, the process itself was surprisingly streamlined. Biometrics scanned, basic information logged efficiently by bored-looking staff, and I was issued a competitor number – 1176 – and directed towards the waiting areas, with my first fight scheduled in roughly fifteen minutes. The efficiency after the initial bottleneck was impressive; they clearly knew how to handle volume here in the tens of thousands.
The waiting area was spacious, a large, well-lit hall offering rows of comfortable seating, complimentary refreshments and light snacks spread on tables (a small but appreciated perk), and large screens dominating one wall. Most screens showed live feeds of ongoing fights across various platforms within the towering structure, displaying fighter numbers, floor levels, and timers. A separate screen scrolled through the upcoming fight queues. Mine appeared quickly: Fighter #1176 vs. Fighter #562, Platform 4. Time to go.
As I walked the polished corridors towards the designated platform, following clear signage, I finalized my strategy. The prize money increased significantly with each floor cleared, particularly once fighters reached the higher levels, up until the coveted 200th floor, where Nen users were the norm. Blasting through opponents quickly using my full speed or training-enhanced strikes would be counter-productive for earning significant capital – quick knockouts didn't draw prolonged crowd interest, and the early floor prize money was minimal. More importantly, it wouldn't help me improve what I felt I needed most: pure martial skill refinement, testing my techniques against diverse, unpredictable styles. This was the perfect opportunity for practical application, a controlled environment for sparring against unknown opponents. To achieve this, I would use my Hatsu, the one I was developing, the one I called "Inner Peace," to level the playing field.
My Hatsu, "Inner Peace," was a Manipulation-type ability focused entirely on achieving complete control over my own physical being. When I first began exploring this concept, I attempted to apply my aura directly to my body's functions. While it did work, the results were crude, inconsistent, and often made my body coordination feel wonky and unnatural, like trying to control intricate clockwork with a sledgehammer. I needed a finer, more precise method of application, something that bypassed the inherent difficulty of direct self-manipulation, which is often considered a complex and difficult application of Nen.
Drawing on theoretical knowledge of Manipulation and the common use of external objects as mediums or "antennas" to apply aura effects, I conceptualized a receiver, an anchor point for my will that would apply the Hatsu's rule of who I was targeting – myself. This led to the creation of the stud earring I now wore. Using my rudimentary Conjuration skills, I painstakingly materialized that single, simple metallic stud.
The Vows and Limitations I placed upon Inner Peace via the earring were stringent, designed to focus and amplify its power dramatically by accepting significant consequences:
* I could only materialize and utilize one single earring stud for this ability, thus permanently limiting my manipulation target to one.
* The earring must be placed onto a willing target (in this case, myself, willingly piercing my own ear and wearing it with full knowledge of its function).
* Once placed onto the willing target, the earring could not be willingly removed. It became permanently bound to the target as long as they lived and the earring remained intact.
* If the earring were removed by force, either through the earring itself being destroyed or through the body part it pierced being severed while the target was alive, I would permanently lose the Inner Peace ability.
These were harsh conditions, yes, a significant, potentially career-ending risk if the earring was damaged or my ear was somehow removed. But by placing such a high limitation and accepting such a severe, permanent consequence, the potency and precision of the Hatsu were amplified to an incredible degree. Combined with my core Vow that this specific Hatsu would only ever target myself, the ability granted me complete control and minute awareness over virtually all the functions of my own body, from regulating hormone release to fine-tuning muscle tension or accelerating nerve impulses. It allowed me to precisely dial my physical capabilities – my strength, speed, reflexes, endurance, even healing rate – up or down as needed, like throttling an engine. It felt like I could dial my capabilities to eleven, similar to how Shalnark's self-manipulation ability, "Autopilot Mode," boosted his, although my own approach aimed for constant, conscious control rather than a temporary, uncontrollable surge. My conceptualization was heavily based on studying the reported effects of Shalnark's ability, but I thought he made a mistake by creating a trump card where he lost conscious control of his own body; my Hatsu was about more control, not less, integrated into my core functionality. This level of self-mastery, achieved through rigorous Vows and the Conjured anchor, felt like only the tip of the iceberg of what might be possible with Inner Peace.
Arriving at Platform 4, a large, circular fighting ring raised slightly above the surrounding viewing area, I saw my opponent already there – a burly man easily twice my weight and a head-and-shoulders taller, flexing his thick arms and pounding his chest for the crowd already gathering around the square ring perimeter, his aura leaking with simple, undirected bravado. A stern-faced referee stood between us, his expression neutral. He gestured us to the center of the ring. "Fighter #1176 versus Fighter #562!" he announced, his voice amplified slightly. "Begin!"
The man grinned, a wide, gap-toothed smile, cracking his knuckles with a loud pop. "Heh, they're sending kids now? Must be my lucky day! Easy win for me!" He immediately charged across the ring, a bull-like rush, leading with a wide, wildly telegraphed haymaker swing aimed at my head.
Clumsy, relies entirely on raw power, no technique, I assessed instantly, the thought flashing through my mind with detached analytical speed. Mentally, I activated Inner Peace. Okay, match his physical parameters. Strength, speed, reflexes – set to his approximate level. Engage. I felt a subtle internal shift, a deliberate reining in of my natural potential, my body settling into a state that mirrored my opponent's perceived capabilities, like deliberately putting weights on my limbs. It felt... restrictive, but controllable.
Instead of easily dodging the telegraphed swing as I normally would have, I met his charge. I slipped just inside the arc of his wild swing, the wind from his massive fist ruffling my hair, and deflected his momentum with a precise palm block to his forearm, using his own force to turn him slightly off balance. He grunted in surprise at meeting unexpected resistance instead of air or a collapsing guard.
What followed was an extended exchange of pure hand-to-hand combat, fought deliberately at a level far below my true capabilities. He pressed forward with heavy, straightforward blows – wide hooks, clumsy crosses, predictable kicks aimed mostly at my legs. He relied purely on his size and power. I responded with tighter guards, quicker parries, deliberately testing different footwork patterns I'd practiced with Dad. I deliberately fought at his level, making it look like an even, hard-fought match. Okay, his right hook leaves his ribs wide open for a counter, but my counter jab there was too slow, I critiqued myself internally. Need to pivot more on the ball of the foot for faster rotation. He threw another punch, a looping left; I ducked under it, feeling the satisfying thwack of air as his fist hit nothing above my head. Better evasion, but could have transitioned into a low leg sweep or a trip from that position. Another exchange, a flurry of blocks and quick steps, testing my parrying techniques. That feint to his left worked well, created space… but I hesitated on the follow-up. Need to commit faster. Despite the constant self-criticism and deliberate limitation, a thrill ran through me, sharp and invigorating. This active learning, testing techniques under pressure against a live, unpredictable opponent without the safety net of overwhelming power, was incredibly valuable – and genuinely fun in a way training never quite was.
The crowd around the platform roared, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth spectacle of the scrappy kid holding his own, seemingly through sheer grit and quickness, against the much bigger, stronger man. We traded blows, blocked, dodged, grappled briefly in messy clinches before the referee broke us apart. After several minutes of this calculated back-and-forth, however, I realized I wasn't learning much more from this particular opponent. His patterns were predictable, his stamina visibly flagging, his attacks becoming sloppier with fatigue. It was time to end it.
During his next predictable, lunging right cross, the opening I'd noted earlier appeared clearly. This time, I didn't just slip inside; I pivoted sharply on my left foot, rotating my body with explosive force, driving my right uppercut perfectly into the underside of his jaw as he overextended his guard. The sharp crack of impact seemed to silence the crowd for a split second before he crumpled heavily to the mat, out cold before he even hit the ground.
The referee checked the downed fighter, confirming he was unconscious, then grabbed my arm, raising it high. "Winner, Fighter #1176! Kess Kobayashi!" A wave of applause erupted from the crowd, louder and more enthusiastic this time, fueled by the exciting, seemingly hard-fought victory by the underdog. "Proceed to the 5th floor!"
I gave a polite bow towards the referee and the crowd and exited the platform, leaving the unconscious fighter to the medical staff who quickly entered the ring. Following the signs directing winning fighters upwards, I collected my winnings for clearing the initial floors from a small booth – barely enough Jenny to buy a cold drink from a nearby vending machine, as expected for the low floors. But the money wasn't the primary goal here, not yet. The goal was practice and data.
The next few weeks became a blur of similar fights, a steady ascent through the floors of Heavens Arena. Floor after floor, opponent after opponent. Each time, before stepping into the ring, I used Inner Peace to match my physical parameters to their level, sometimes slightly above if they seemed more skilled, turning every bout into a dynamic, challenging martial arts lesson. I faced brawlers who relied on brute force, nimble martial artists with intricate forms, tricky fighters who used unorthodox movements – a diverse array of styles and skill levels to analyze, adapt to, and learn from. The fights were always crowd-pleasers, appearing as close-fought struggles due to my deliberate limitation, generating excitement, and my winnings steadily increased as I climbed higher. Days turned into weeks as I progressed: past the 10th floor, the 20th, the 50th, the 80th...
Finally, after another calculated victory against a surprisingly agile kickboxer, I reached the 100th floor. Here, the rules changed slightly, and I was assigned my own personal room with utilities – a small but clean space with a simple cot, a private bathroom, and a lockable door, a significant perk signifying progress and a higher level of competitor in the tower. Closing the door behind me, shutting out the noise and bustle of the lower floors, I sank onto the simple bed, the pleasant ache of exertion settling into my muscles as the adrenaline from the last fight faded.
I closed my eyes, entering a meditative state, the practiced calmness settling over my mind. I replayed the recent battles in my mind, each exchange vividly clear thanks to my photographic memory. I analyzed movements, techniques, my own successes and failures, processing the vast amount of combat data I'd accumulated from fighting different body types and styles. I integrated the lessons learned into my understanding of combat, refining my reactions and strategies. After a long while, feeling a sense of productive clarity and physical readiness, I opened my eyes, a bright, satisfied smile spreading across my face.
"This place..." I murmured softly to the empty room, the smile lingering. "It really is perfect for practice. So many styles to learn from. So much raw data to process."
Closing my eyes again, I sank deeper into meditation, ready to consolidate my gains before tackling the challenges of the next hundred floors, and after that the 200th floor where the real fighters, the Nen users, would be the norm. The journey through the Hunter Exam had tested my foundation. Heavens Arena was where I would build the rest of the structure and begin to truly test my Hatsu against those who understood Nen.