Stepping off the elevator onto the 200th floor of Heavens Arena was less like reaching a new level and more like breaching a thermocline, a sudden, significant shift in pressure and atmosphere. The boisterous, chaotic energy of the lower floors, a swirling vortex of untrained auras and raw ambition, vanished abruptly. It was replaced by a heavy, palpable tension that clung to the air, sharp and alert. Fewer people occupied the opulent lounges, polished corridors, and high-end shops on this level, but those present moved with a focused intensity that immediately set them apart. Their gazes were sharp, assessing, constantly sweeping their surroundings and the few others sharing the space.
My Nen senses, now finely tuned through years of practice and months of dedicated Hatsu development, immediately registered the fundamental difference in the air. It wasn't filled with the chaotic, leaky energy of the untrained masses, but with the contained, often unstable, or visibly weak, auras of actual Nen users. This wasn't the general population anymore; it was a gathering of individuals who had awakened their power, whether intentionally or through the brutal baptism of the 200th floor. It felt like stepping into a den of predators, even if many present were still cubs, their power unrefined, their claws not yet fully sharp.
The registration process here on the 200th floor was less about gaining entry to the tower and more about formalizing a commitment to combat on this dangerous level. As a fighter who had ascended past the 100th floor, my identity was already logged in their extensive system. The stern attendant behind the desk, his own aura tightly contained, barely spared me a glance as he confirmed my arrival to the 200s. He swiftly produced a thick digital waiver displayed on a tablet, requiring my signature. This wasn't a simple sign-in; it was a legal document acknowledging the potentially lethal risks of combat on these floors, explicitly absolving Heavens Arena of all liability for injury, permanent disability, or death sustained during a match. Fights on the 200th floor and above were heavily promoted and televised, making a fighter's name and reputation crucial for the Arena's business model, not just their raw fighting ability.
I knew the score here from my clear memory of the series – reach the 200th floor without Nen, and your first fight became a forced "baptism" by an opponent's deliberate aura attack. If you survived that impact, and were receptive, you would awaken your own Nen, thus joining the pool of fighters on this level. Failure in that first 200th floor fight – death or permanent crippling from the opponent's aura – was a very real possibility. For the Arena, such outcomes were simply part of the brutal, constant culling that ensured a fresh supply of desperate fighters for the gruesome spectacle and the entertainment of those on higher floors. As an already awakened and trained user, I bypassed that terrifying initiation, but understanding the brutal efficiency of the system highlighted the inherent danger level of this place. I registered for my first fight, leaving the date open, and was told notifications would come via the dedicated phone line in my assigned room.
Returning to my modest but functional room – I used the waiting time productively. Hours were spent drilling advanced Ryu flow, focusing on achieving perfect, seamless transitions between offense and defense, ensuring my aura distribution was instantaneous and precise. I practiced Shu on mundane objects, trying to extend its duration and strength. Deep meditation sessions focused on refining the internal pathways of "Inner Peace," seeking even greater control over my physical responses. There was always more foundation to strengthen.
A day later, the phone in my room rang, its sudden shrill sound cutting through the quiet hum of the tower. A clipped, professional voice on the other end informed me: "Fighter Kess Kobayashi, your match against Fighter Magnus Stone is scheduled in one hour, Arena 7. Please report to the designated waiting area."
I arrived at the designated waiting area for Arena 7 shortly before the scheduled time. It was a small, private room adjacent to the arena floor, occupied only by a silent Arena attendant who checked my fighter number. The atmosphere here was tight, focused, different from the more open waiting halls on the lower floors. I performed some light stretches, mentally preparing, reviewing what little I knew about my opponent from the fight board name – Magnus 'The Mauler' Stone.
The announcer's voice suddenly boomed through the arena's speakers, audible even in the waiting room: "Now entering the ring, the new challenger from the lower floors, Kess Kobayashi!" The attendant opened the door and gestured for me to proceed. I walked towards the entrance tunnel, my steps measured, calm, and purposeful. The roar of the sparse crowd grew louder as I emerged into the bright lights of Arena 7 and walked towards the center of the fighting platform, acknowledging the referee with a brief nod.
The announcer continued, "And his opponent, the powerhouse, Magnus 'The Mauler' Stone!" From the opposite tunnel, a mountain of muscle emerged – my opponent. He was easily twice my weight and a head-and-shoulders taller, walking with a swagger, his aura flaring crudely and visibly around him, strong but fundamentally unstable, like a poorly contained wildfire. He spotted me as he walked towards his side of the ring, a sneer twisting his lips when he saw my size and age.
Magnus stopped across the ring from me. "Finally!" he boomed as the referee signaled the start of the match, his voice echoing in the arena. "Thought you'd forfeit, kid! You think you're tough coming up here at your age?! Prepare to get crushed!" He immediately charged across the ring, channeling aura into his right fist, a messy, inefficient application of Ten, a raw, uncontrolled ball of power forming around his knuckles. It was a crude, pure expression of force – a messy Ko – as he threw a wide, lumbering haymaker aimed straight at my head.
"Crude Ko, weak Ten," I analyzed instantly, the details of his aura use starkly clear to my senses. Sidestepping the blow was effortless, my reflexes, honed by Inner Peace, made his charged attack seem laughably slow, almost in slow motion. He stumbled slightly from the missed punch, his poor balance and overextension evident. "All force, no finesse. Just raw power, poorly directed." Before he could recover his balance or momentum, I flowed in, a blur of controlled motion. A single, sharp, precise strike – leveraging pure physical speed and anatomical precision, the result of years of training – connected cleanly with the nerve cluster on the side of his neck. Magnus's eyes went wide in surprise, then rolled back as he collapsed heavily, his massive form hitting the mat with a loud thud.
The referee stared for a moment, clearly startled by the abrupt end to the anticipated 'mauling', then hurried over to check Magnus before raising my arm. "Winner by knockout, Kess Kobayashi!" The sparse crowd offered muted applause; the fight was simply too quick, too one-sided, over before they could even register what had happened. Right, I thought, exiting the ring and heading towards the tunnel leading back to the waiting area. Basic Enhancement, poorly controlled power. Need to watch out for raw power landing by chance in the future, but easily dismantled if they rely on pure force without technique or speed.
I immediately went back to the registration desk and signed up for my next open-ended fight slot. It took a full week before the room phone rang again, a significantly longer wait than on the lower floors. "Took a while," I mused, picking up the receiver. "Perhaps that quick win made potential opponents hesitant? Didn't want to be next? Or maybe the scheduling up here is just slower, more deliberate, with fewer fighters?"
The clipped voice on the call informed me: Opponent "Flicker Jax," Arena 4, in two hours.
I reported to the designated waiting area for Arena 4. Another small, private room. I went through my routine – stretching, mental preparation, a brief review of the opponent name, Flicker Jax. The silence was broken only by the distant sounds of the tower until the announcer's voice cut through the air.
"Now entering the ring, Kess Kobayashi!" I stepped out of the waiting room, walked towards the arena entrance, my steps calm and deliberate. As I emerged into the light of Arena 4, I walked towards the center, my gaze scanning the opposite side of the ring.
The announcer continued, "And his opponent, the unpredictable, Flicker Jax!" From the opposite tunnel, Flicker Jax emerged. He was a wiry, nervous man who practically vibrated with agitated energy, his aura flickering erratically around him, mirroring his moniker. His eyes darted constantly, and he chewed on his lip as he shuffled nervously towards the center.
As the bell rang, signaling the start of the match, he immediately jumped back several paces, putting distance between us, shouting in a high-pitched voice, "Stay back! Don't come any closer!" He thrust his hands forward from his defensive posture, launching several flickering, unstable balls of aura towards me.
"Emission, clearly," I noted instantly, easily weaving between the projectiles with minimal movement. They were fast, yes – imbued with Nen-enhanced speed – but visibly unstable, their trajectory wavering mid-flight, and the aura composing them seemed to dissipate rapidly after traveling only a short distance. "Fast, but inaccurate. Power disperses quickly. Significant delay between shots, too, he can't fire them rapidly." I closed the distance in a couple of quick, controlled bursts of movement, easily avoiding the few more panicked shots Jax managed to fire off as I approached.
"No! Get away!" he shrieked, trying a clumsy, desperate kick as I entered his personal space, abandoning his ranged strategy in a panic. I slapped the kick aside with ease, spun past his ineffective guard, and a quick sweep sent him tumbling to the mat. The fight was over before it had truly begun. Reliance on a flawed ranged Hatsu is a fatal mistake here, I assessed as the referee declared my win. No plan B, no close combat skill, unstable Ten for defense.
Another few days passed, filled with the steady routine of training, meditation, and reviewing my past fights using my photographic memory, integrating the lessons. Then the next call came: Opponent "Silas 'Bladehand'," Arena 9.
I reported to the waiting area for Arena 9, went through my routine. After the attendant checked me in, I waited until the announcer called my name.
"Now entering the ring, Kess Kobayashi!" I stepped out of the waiting room, walking towards the arena entrance with my usual focused stride. As I entered the light of Arena 9, I walked towards the center, my gaze fixed on the opposite entrance.
The announcer continued, "And his opponent, the sharp-willed, Silas 'Bladehand'!" Silas emerged. He was different from the previous two. Calm, focused, holding his hands almost reverently before him even as he walked towards the center. His aura felt contained, stable, lacking the crude leakage or erratic flickering of Magnus or Jax.
I activated Gyo out of habit as the match began, focusing my aura into my eyes. Aura gathered intensely around Silas's hands, condensing, taking on a sharp, defined, almost shimmering edge, like invisible blades.
"Transmutation," I confirmed internally. "Shaping aura into blades. A classic application." Silas's gaze was steady as he spoke, his voice low, resonating with quiet confidence. "My aura cuts deeper than steel, boy," he warned, adopting a fluid stance with his hands held like sharpened knives. "Don't get careless." He moved forward, launching quick, slicing chops and thrusts with surprising speed and precision.
I focused entirely on evasion, letting the hand-blades whistle past my body by inches. The sharpness felt real, a genuine threat, I could feel the edge of the aura as it sliced the air nearby. But I also sensed a thinness to it, a lack of underlying density, a feeling of strain around his hands. "Interesting application," I thought, circling him, testing his footwork and reactions with feints, my movements light and quick. "But his Ten feels strained maintaining the shape. Is he really suited for this? Or is he pushing his limits?" I slipped inside a wide slash, aiming a purely physical, non-Nen kick towards his torso – a test. He recoiled sharply, his hand-blade momentarily flickering and losing some definition as his concentration broke to defend his body from the physical impact. He valued the shape of his Hatsu over protecting himself. I pressed the advantage, using speed and angles to keep him off balance, forcing more errors, until a clean opening allowed a decisive strike to his side, a simple, hard punch that made him stagger and fully drop his Hatsu, his aura snapping back to normal. He yielded before I landed the finishing blow, clearly defeated. Good concept, I reflected walking away, nodding respectfully to Silas who returned it grimly. But the execution was weak, the aura felt forced, like he was fighting his own nature. Likely not a natural Transmuter trying to do too much. Maybe an Emitter or Manipulator pushing for a close-combat ability? That inefficiency explains the lack of power behind the sharpness. A shame, indeed, developing the wrong path.
I registered for more fights immediately. Over the next few weeks, the pattern repeated. I faced "Grokk the Crusher" and "Mira the Fleeting." Grokk was another Enhancer, slightly more controlled than Magnus but ultimately just as straightforward – powerful punches, but predictable. Mira used Emission to boost her speed in short bursts but lacked the stamina and basic combat sense to utilize it effectively; her movements were fast, but lacked purpose. Both fights ended quickly, bringing my victory total on the 200th floor to five.
Back in my room, I reviewed the encounters. Five Nen users faced, five victories secured with relative ease. The brutal baptism system of the 200th floor indeed created Nen users, but it clearly didn't create masters or even particularly skilled practitioners. Their foundations were weak, their understanding of Nen fundamentals rudimentary, and their Hatsu often simple, inefficient, or ill-suited to their natural abilities. They relied on the raw power Nen provided, not the skill to wield it effectively. There was no prize money for these initial wins on the 200th floor, only the climb itself as payment. Ten wins were needed to earn the right to challenge a Floor Master, the next significant hurdle.
"Five down, five to go," I murmured, stretching after a training session, feeling the familiar burn in my muscles, the smooth flow of my aura beneath my skin. The anticipation was building, sharpening. "Time to find someone who can actually force me to fight seriously, someone who understands how to use what they have."