The First to Qualify

At the bottom-floor hall, the timer had ticked forward by more than eleven hours.

Saitama leaned back in his chair. Seven empty sausage wrappers had already piled up beside him. He opened the eighth one and took a bite. The examiner added another line to the registration sheet: This candidate is eating his eighth free sausage.

Meanwhile, deep within the tower, a narrow passage built for one person stretched ahead, its walls lined with rusted iron bars. Hisoka walked alone through the dim corridor, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

At the end of the passage, a scar-faced man sat on the floor, twirling two curved blades in his hands. Togari looked up, his eyes glinting fiercely in the darkness.

"Hisoka, it's been a long time."

Hisoka stopped.

"This time, I came as an avenger." Togari rose to his feet, spinning a curved blade around his fingers. The hideous scar on his face flickered in the candlelight. "To avenge the scar you left on my face all those years ago. I spent a full two and a half years mastering the Infinite Four-Sword Style!"

With a flick of both hands, he sent four curved blades flying at once, thrusting at Hisoka's vital points from above, below, left, and right. The blades sliced through the air with piercing whistles.

Hisoka shifted aside, moving as effortlessly as if he were dancing. The curved blades grazed his clothes and buried themselves deep in the wall behind him.

Togari bared his teeth in laughter, gripping his last two curved blades. "Well? This is the result of two and a half years of training! You're dead this time—"

With a roar, he charged Hisoka at full speed. His blades flashed coldly beneath the lights.

Just as the blades were about to fall, Hisoka suddenly reached out and calmly caught, barehanded, the two curved blades that had bounced back from behind him. Togari froze instantly, his raised hands suspended in midair. The smile vanished from his face, and his eyes widened round.

Hisoka toyed with the curved blades in his hands, his smile contemptuous. "Dodging these blades really is quite difficult. Catching them, though, is much simpler. And they're rather easy to handle."

He turned his wrist, spinning a blade around his fingers, and drawled, "What a shame you put in so much effort. You could have been much stronger, but sadly, you only trained for two and a half years."

Togari snapped out of it, gritting his teeth. "Damn it—"

The two curved blades in Hisoka's hands shot out like lightning.

A flash of cold light.

Togari stumbled half a step back and opened his mouth, but no words came out. Then his whole body fell backward.

Hisoka wiped the blood from his hands and turned away. "What a waste of my time."

At the bottom-floor hall, the timer reached exactly twelve hours.

Saitama stuffed the last bite of his seventh free sausage into his mouth and chewed. He had seen this episode; Hisoka was supposed to be the first one out. The timer now said there were sixty hours remaining. Tilting his head, he folded the wrapper and stacked it with the previous six.

A door at one of the passage entrances opened.

Hisoka emerged from the passage, holding a playing card between his fingers. A spot of dark red blood stained the edge of his clothes. He swept his gaze across the hall—

Then he saw the bald man in the chair.

Saitama leaned against the backrest with one leg crossed over the other, holding the wrapper from his seventh free sausage. Their eyes met.

Hisoka's pupils contracted slightly.

This bald man. He had seen him in Visca Swamp. Back then, he had blocked the bald man's path and looked him over from head to toe, then from toe to head. No fighting spirit, no fear, no Nen—like a stone. He had judged the man "not worth killing" and stepped aside.

And now, this "stone" was sitting in a chair in the hall beyond the trial, legs crossed, holding a sausage wrapper.

He had arrived even earlier than him.

Hisoka licked his lips, his voice hoarse. "When did you get out?"

Saitama finished chewing the last bite of sausage and thought for a moment. "Forgot. Eleven hours ago."

The examiner lowered his head to read the note on the registration sheet—around ten minutes after the third trial began, this candidate had jumped from the top of the tower, smashed through the outer wall at its base, and entered the bottom-floor hall. He had seated himself. His sleep quality was excellent. He had eaten seven free sausages. He was eating his eighth. Eleven hours. Nearly half a day faster than him.

Hisoka's pupils dilated, bloodshot veins appearing in the whites of his eyes. The corners of his mouth curled upward uncontrollably as an extraordinarily brilliant yet bizarre smile bloomed across his face. His body began to tremble faintly.

The playing cards fanned out between his fingers, and his hand shook—not from fear, but excitement. His boiling fighting spirit made his fingers spasm slightly. The muscles in his legs tensed, and his breathing grew heavier.

Saitama glanced at him. "Do you want to fight me?"

Hisoka's smile froze for half a second. He put the cards back into his pocket, turned, and walked to a bench on the other side of the hall. His body still trembled slightly, and his fingers unconsciously rubbed the cards in his pocket. It was because Saitama had yawned. A long yawn. His mouth had opened wide, his eyes narrowing to slits. He was not taking Hisoka seriously at all. For the first time, Hisoka could not see through an opponent at all. That unknown quality made his excitement nearly spill from his chest. But there was still the fourth exam, and then the final test. He had plenty of time to slowly probe this bald man. Acting now would be too wasteful.

The examiner watched the two men seated on benches at opposite ends of the hall. Hisoka leaned against the wall, flipping the playing cards one by one between his fingers, his eyes never leaving the bald man on the bench opposite him. His breathing was loud enough to fill the entire hall.

Saitama folded the wrapper from his seventh sausage and put it into his pocket with the others. His pocket bulged, rustling whenever he walked. He patted it, shifted into another position, and went back to sleep. That clown beside him was still staring at him. But it did not matter—he had seen this episode. Hisoka might be a weirdo, but there were still several exams ahead, and Hisoka would come find him himself. They could deal with it then. For now, he would sleep.

Sixty hours. The timer continued to tick. Others were still clearing the trial inside the tower. In the bottom-floor hall, only two people remained—one snoring, the other trembling.