Roy moved—
Just standing up drew a thousand eyes.
Gotoh's. Bisky's. "Gunsaint" Guy's. "Ninja" Masaru Kikuta's. And… a boy hiding in the shadows, and another boy as well.
Kastro stared blankly at Roy's back. Ten meters away, arms folded across his chest, Illumi said nothing.
The foolish otōto leaned against the wall; catching Kastro's stare, his brow creased—barely perceptible.
Last night Kastro slunk back to his dojo and found his one-armed master.
"Because you know fists you get a hand cut off; because you know kicks you get a leg chopped off," the master told him. "Whatever you pride yourself on, there's always someone better. So what's there to be so crushed about?"
The master had walked that road and knew how Kastro felt. But the boy was still on the shore—he didn't understand. He came to see—and he saw—the thing he had never grasped: Nen.
"I can't accept it, Master. You're right—but I just can't accept it!" Kastro knelt at his master's feet, sobbing.
The master was silent. After a moment he patted the boy's head. "So what will you do?"
"Seek a teacher!
"Whoever beat me—I'll take him as my master!" Kastro bowed three times till it rang. "Please strike my name from the rolls."
The master laughed. "How are you even more old-fashioned than me? What era is this—who talks 'expulsion' anymore… If you want to learn, then go. When you've learned it, let me witness it. I believe my student won't be less than anyone!"
"Master…"
"Go on—looking at you annoys me."
"Yes." Kastro turned and left. The master didn't see him out; only when he reached the threshold did he lift his severed arm and shout, "Dōrō—give it your all!"
Kastro's tears burst. He nodded hard—and now here he was, eyes locked on Roy as he stepped toward the ring.
Wait… that kid really does know how? Roy drew the cane blade and walked unhurriedly to the platform.
Bisky's gaze went slack. Behind her, "Gunsaint" Guy and "Ninja" Kikuta traded a look.
They'd long heard "Iro" excelled at hand-to-hand, that his 81-win legend was built bare-fisted—no one had heard he trained the sword.
"Curious—but he still isn't Harrison's match. No matter how sharp the blade, it won't cut iron."
In a thunder of cheers, Harrison made his entrance.
Crowd heat comes fast and goes fast—from Wing to Harrison in under a minute. Wing pushed his glasses down the bridge of his nose, met Roy in the aisle, and smiled: "Careful. Enhancers are trouble."
"Talking about you—or him?"
Harrison dropped from the stands like a pile driver and slammed into the ring. The boards cracked in a spider web with him at the heart.
Wing narrowed his eyes. "Both hard. Both trouble."
Roy agreed with a nod, brushed past his shoulder, and stepped up. "I'll be waiting for your letter."
Shiiing. The cane blade slid free. He held it one-handed, face blank, eyes on Harrison.
"Oh—our win-streak champion brought a sword today. Does that mean… he has another surprise for us?" The emcee clocked the weapon at once—the keen edge throwing cold light, the straight body etched with black flame motifs, as if declaring to the world: better to be straight within the curve than to seek curve within the straight.
"That doesn't look like a blade that kills," Wing said, sitting in Roy's seat as he came down.
He asked Gotoh, curious, "When did your young master start with the sword?"
Twin tails swished—Bisky leaned in too. Gotoh kept his eyes on Roy's not-tall but razor-straight back, pride in his voice: "Ten days."
"Ten days? Then he's dead," Kikuta said flatly. "Harrison pours all his aura into forging that steel body—bullets can't pierce him. Let alone some half-baked swordsman with ten days' training."
"You're insulting half-baked," Guy muttered, regretful—if only he could beat Harrison, that windfall would be his. He shook his head. "Months for staff, years for blade. Without a year, forget 'real fight'—you can't even hold it steady. Iro's clowning."
"You two looking to die?" Gotoh pushed up his gold rims; danger flickered in his eyes. Bisky, chewing her lollipop, cut in: "They're not wrong. Ten days won't poke through this Harrison.
"Look at his skin—the bronze glow with a metallic sheen. That's not ten months—it's ten years of grind."
As much as Gotoh bristled, he couldn't deny it. "Meat Grinder" didn't earn the name for nothing—he liked to pulverize bones with his fists. Hard didn't begin to cover it.
"Young master will win. Watch."
It sounded thin.
The emcee finished Roy's intro and moved to Harrison's—his roar eclipsed Roy's. Gamblers shoved their stacks on Harrison, howling for him to stop talking and start grinding.
Harrison stood two meters—bear-thick chest and shoulders—a string of bone charms around his neck, scalp polished, a broad grin as he fixed on Roy. "You shouldn't have taken it."
"And yet I did."
"Then you die."
"Talking about you?"
"Ohhh… I can smell the blood already!" The emcee, between them and giddy, bawled into the mic, "Ladies and gentlemen—give them everything you've got!
"Tonight's headline:
"Iro the Piercing Hand—vs.—Harrison the Meat Grinder!
"Begin!"
WHOOOM— The cracked ring birthed a gale.
A brutal wave of Ren flung the emcee off his feet. Lucky he was a Nen user—another man might not have stood again.
"Here it comes—strong Ren!" Kikuta narrowed his eyes. Beside him—Bisky excepted—Gotoh and Guy cut their eyes to Roy.
The boy with the cane blade swayed in the gale like a leaf-boat blundering into open sea—any wave could capsize him.
Harrison sneered. "What's this supposed to mean?
"Where's your Ren?"
When your foe releases Ren, the best answer is to answer with Ren. Common sense.
Ren isn't just aura control. It's the will that rides it.
Didn't Gon and Killua almost piss themselves when Hisoka blocked the 200F elevator with Ren?
Is this punk looking down on me? Harrison's temper flared.
Roy spread his hands. "Don't know how. How do you do it?"
Harrison: "…"
Bisky, Wing, Guy, Kikuta: "…"