Chapter 68: First Fight on the Sky Arena's Ground Floor
They touched down at Batopia's international transit hub and immediately made the smooth transition onto the connector shuttle to the Sky Arena. As the single most popular destination in the entire country, it drew enormous numbers of visitors every day who arrived, bypassed everything else, and went directly there. The route ran constantly and was always full.
If they had not booked ahead using the computers at Association headquarters, they would almost certainly have had to wait at the hub for a while.
That was where the Hunter license priority showed itself. The moment they made the reservation, they went to the front. With only a little over six hundred people in the world who could claim the same privilege, some special treatment came with the territory.
Worth noting: using the Association's computers for the booking had kept their network information reasonably secure. Had they used public terminals anywhere else, there would have been a near-certain chance of being flagged immediately by any number of interested parties watching the network. The internet security situation in this world was, to put it plainly, primitive. Post anything, and someone with the inclination could find you within minutes.
On a separate note: the computer boot screen in this world displayed an image Ross found genuinely unsettling. It showed what appeared to be a human brain suspended in nutrient fluid, neural tissue wired directly into a central circuit board, surface covered in dense rows of electrode patches. Every detail rendered with uncomfortable realism.
Back on his original world, he would have dismissed that as a software designer with unusual tastes. Here, in a world where human organs could be listed as auction items at major international events without anyone raising a serious objection, and where predation was woven into the texture of everyday life, he found himself genuinely wondering whether this world's internet literally ran on biological hardware as its core servers.
"WHOOOOA, it's SO TALL!"
"That thing is insane! How is that even real!"
Kuwabara and Yusuke both had their faces flat against the window, producing completely genuine sounds of awe at the tower-shaped structure outside that could only be described as reaching into the sky.
Seeing it on television was one thing. Being in front of it was another.
"The Sky Arena has two hundred and fifty-one floors. Nine hundred and ninety-one meters. Fourth-tallest building in the world."
Ross glanced at the information panel on the airship's display, then glanced out the window.
Just looking at it made him feel the early symptoms of acrophobia.
Two weeks of high-intensity airship travel had done a decent job of desensitizing him to altitude. Without that, entering this building would have required some genuine psychological preparation.
The moment they landed, the atmosphere shifted noticeably.
The ground floor sorted itself into two distinct streams of people. One was the visitor flow: spectators there to watch the fights.
The other was the registration line. Which extended out into the street. Enormous, and composed almost entirely of large, formidable-looking individuals with obvious experience in physical confrontation.
"Sign up first or watch first?"
Ross, who ranked standing in lines among his least preferred activities, directed the question at Yusuke with a pained expression. That said, this was not the kind of establishment where you queued fourteen hours for a piece of yakitori from some overrated restaurant, so he could manage.
"Sign up! Watching can come later!"
Yusuke was visibly lit up, with a quality of excitement that was hard to put a name to. This was clearly a natural environment for someone with his temperament. For someone fundamentally oriented toward fighting, a place where confrontation was the entire point was essentially a pilgrimage site.
"There are a lot of people here who look seriously strong."
Kuwabara was scanning left and right, estimating heights, gauging builds.
"Relax. Neither of you has anything to worry about. You're both stronger than almost everyone in this line."
Ross said it without lowering his voice at all, which naturally drew the attention of several nearby people looking to identify whatever overconfident idiot had just said that.
What they found were three people who looked like students. Two of them were still wearing what appeared to be actual school uniforms. The general charitable consensus was that young people who did not know better should not be held too accountable for not knowing better, and attention returned to other things.
None of them could have known that every single person in that line combined would not have been enough to take down any one of the three.
For what it was worth, most of them probably privately believed they were the strongest person present. They just had not said it out loud.
Limited perspective had a consistent effect on people.
The line was long but moved reasonably efficiently. Despite three separate fighting incidents triggered by queue-jumpers over the course of the wait, the three of them reached the front in roughly two hours.
Forms submitted, entry confirmed. Inside: a combined fighting venue with a four-by-four arrangement of sixteen small rings, surrounded by tiered spectator seating on all sides. Fighters were cycling through constantly, taking the rings in sequence, winners advancing, losers done.
The crowd had a distinct quality of bloodthirst to them, rising and falling with each result on the floor. Among them, predictably, were gamblers. The Sky Arena ran its own official betting operation starting from the fiftieth floor. Ten billion visitors per year had a way of generating ancillary industries.
On the ground floor, spectators and registered fighters shared the stands. The three of them each held a numbered card. The process was straightforward: wait for your number to be called, go to the ring.
"Combatants 2318 and 2677! Please proceed to Ring C!"
"Oh. That's me first."
Ross blinked, then felt a strange jolt of nerves.
Chronic homebodies were genuinely not well-suited to public performance contexts.
Stepping onto Ring C alongside him was a man built like a long-working boxer: rough, dark skin, scars accumulated at various sizes across the body, boxing shorts and tank top, the bearing of someone who had been in a significant number of actual fights. He looked dangerous.
By comparison, Ross looked like a bewildered high schooler who had wandered onto the wrong stage.
"Ha! Kid, if you don't want to get hurt, just leave now! This isn't a playground!"
"Man, you drew the absolute worst possible matchup! Come on, give us a one-punch KO!"
Shouts from the stands arrived in sequence, from a mix of waiting fighters and genuine spectators. Their opinion on the outcome was unanimous.
Whether influenced by the crowd or simply relying on his own read, the boxer barely looked at Ross. His head was already running through the end of the fight before it started.
The referee moved through his mandatory explanation with the cadence of someone who had given it several thousand times.
"Ground floor rules: no weapons permitted. All fighting takes place within the ring. I will determine the result based on the condition and injuries of both parties. Give your best effort within three minutes."
He glanced at both fighters, and then:
"Begin."
The instant the word was out, the boxer was moving, charging straight into Ross's face with heavy, direct force, clearly intending to put Ross's nose and front teeth through the back of his skull in a single shot.
Ross stepped to the side, both hands catching the incoming arm. His waist turned, the rotation carried into his shoulder, he loaded and released.
The boxer had no time to process what was happening before his body went weightless.
He flew a clean arc through the air and came down in the spectator seating about ten meters away.
Ross looked at his hands.
Was the Back Throw always that powerful?
***
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