"Congratulations on reaching the 200th floor. Please proceed to the registration desk. Two hundred million Jenny has been deposited into your account."
Kevin acknowledged the announcement with a nod. Ever since his bout with Killua, he'd lost any desire to linger on the lower tiers. In the following days, he'd fought a few more matches, rapidly assimilating his opponents' force application techniques through Blank Meteor before securing decisive victories. In just a few days, he'd blitzed his way to the 200th floor.
From here on, it was purely a Nen user's arena. The overconfident, learning-through-tanking approach he'd used below wouldn't work. Moreover, his ability's effectiveness diminished significantly against pure Nen-based attacks. On some instinctive level, his learning was biased towards endogenous powers—changes produced from within the body, like those from his potions—rather than complex, externally manifested Nen abilities.
He took the elevator directly to the 200th floor.
The moment the doors slid open, he was met with a wall of palpable, malignant intent. The entire floor was saturated with hostile aura, a psychic pressure cooker designed to make any non-user feel like prey wandering into a den of predators.
"How unwelcoming," Kevin remarked flatly, unfazed. He strode directly toward the registration desk.
A Sky Arena attendant stood quietly beside it. At a glance, Kevin could tell she was a Nen user. It made sense; staff on this floor would need Nen to withstand the oppressive atmosphere, lest they go mad.
Before he could even speak, a chorus of low, mocking laughter echoed from a nearby corridor.
"A newcomer."
"He looks like he can use Nen."
"Want to register for a match with us? I'll go easy on you."
"Hehehe!"
Kevin looked over. A group of men with bizarre, often maimed physiques stood there—missing limbs, eye patches, scars aplenty. Their aura control was sloppy, their grasp of the Four Major Principles clearly shaky.
"Get lost," Kevin said, his voice bored. "If my first opponent is trash like you, it'd be too dull. I'm not interested in bullying the disabled."
His words were a drill bit to their collective psyche, striking directly at their deepest insecurities.
"What did you say, you arrogant brat?!"
"Oh, the newbie has a mouth on him! I hope you're still talking tough in the ring."
"Register quickly. I'll make you beg for a surrender you won't get."
"We'll make you just like us!"
Facing their enraged shouts, Kevin merely waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting at particularly bothersome flies. His arrogance only stoked their fury, their unstable auras pulsing with even more intense malice.
"Move aside, you useless lot! Don't block the way!"
A sharp, reedy voice, dripping with displeasure, cut through the noise from behind the group. Hearing it, the men scattered to the sides like startled cockroaches, clearing a path as if something truly terrifying approached.
A tall, gaunt figure sauntered forward. He wore a bizarre, skin-tight suit that only a true eccentric would choose, his face a roadmap of countless intersecting scars. His exposed hands were similarly marked. Dry, straw-like yellow hair hung limply around his shoulders. As he walked, the four distinct weapons hanging from his belt clinked together with a discordant clang-clang-clang.
Seeing him approach, even the staff member at the desk paled slightly.
A pair of murky, clouded eyes fixed on Kevin, scrutinizing him intently. "A tender new sprout," the man said, his voice unnervingly sharp, his tone lilting like a bad opera singer. "What a pity… you've already learned Nen." He began to circle Kevin slowly. "But as a gardener, I don't mind. How about an… artistic battle with me? I'll give you a proper 'pruning.'"
As he spoke, his aura seeped out, uncontrolled by his emotions. It was utterly different from the battle-lust or malice of other users. This aura felt corrupt, warped, inspiring a deep, instinctive aversion in anyone who sensed it.
"I want to register," Kevin stated flatly to the staff member, ignoring the spectacle.
The receptionist jolted back to attention and nodded quickly. She took a steadying breath, her professional demeanor resurfacing. "When would you like to schedule your match? I should explain the specific rules for this floor—"
Kevin cut her off with a wave. "Register me. Anytime is fine. I understand the rules." His tone brooked no discussion.
The girl nodded and began processing his registration.
Kevin then stepped aside, his calm, dismissive actions a direct provocation aimed at the scarred man.
The maimed onlookers stared at Kevin as if he were already a corpse. One of them opened his mouth, perhaps to jeer, but a single glance from the scar-faced man snapped it shut again, fear overriding malice.
"Then I'll register as well," the scarred man sang, his voice sharp with excitement. "How thrilling." He turned his head, only to find Kevin was no longer there. Only the man's retreating back was visible, disappearing down the hall.
Watching that departing figure, the scarred man's expression darkened into something truly venomous. He gritted his teeth, his next words forced out from a constricted throat: "I will 'prune' you, little seedling. I will make you... 'perfect.'"
Kevin didn't return home. He went straight to Mito's suite.
"Have a seat. Let me grab a jacket," Mito said, turning toward his bedroom.
"A jacket? Are you going out?" Kevin was puzzled.
Now it was Mito's turn to look confused. He stopped and looked at Kevin, even miming raising a glass to his lips.
"I didn't come here to ask you out for a drink."
"Ah? My mistake." Realizing his error, Mito walked back and sat down.
"Does me coming to see you only mean eating and drinking?" Kevin asked, a touch of exasperation in his voice.
Mito just shrugged, offering no defense. In the past, when Kevin visited during the day, it was usually to check on his Nen training progress and offer pointers. If he came at night, without fail, it was to drag him out for food and drinks. They'd often wander the night markets afterward, where Mito, with his "Nomadic Tribe" background and knowledge of special channels, would help Kevin procure rare "materials" not easily found on the open market. It was his way of repaying the favor.
"I remember you have combat footage of fighters from above the 200th floor, right?"
Mito nodded. Before awakening his Nen, he'd specifically collected many such videos to study potential opponents after reaching that tier.
"I registered today. If nothing goes wrong, my opponent will be a pervert in a skin-tight suit, face covered in scars, with four different weapons on his belt."
Hearing this, Mito's eyes widened. He wasn't surprised Kevin had reached the 200th floor—that was a given. What shocked him was the opponent.
"Are you sure? That guy is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. All the footage I've collected confirms it." Mito's expression was deadly serious, his concern plain.
"Oh? Find it. Let's take a look." Kevin's interest was immediately piqued.