A Foreshadowing That Led Nowhere-Who Cares About a Random Extra?

The electronic screen displayed the second match-up: Kurapika VS Hisoka.

Kurapika took off his outer coat, folded it neatly onto a chair, and stepped onto the arena. Hisoka rose from the back of the hall, spinning a playing card in his hand. His golden pupils narrowed slightly beneath the lights, a half-smile curling at his lips. He noticed Kurapika's gaze—it was completely different from Gon's. Gon's eyes held a goal; the blond boy's held restraint. To Hisoka, restraint was more beautiful than fear.

The two faced each other in the center of the arena. Kurapika moved first—his right fist shot straight for Hisoka's face, fast enough to make Hanzo raise an eyebrow. Hisoka tilted his head aside, and Kurapika spun with the motion, striking back with his left elbow before sweeping low with his right leg. Hisoka leaped back and landed, his toes lightly touching the mat, only for Kurapika's next straight punch to chase after him. The two exchanged moves at high speed in the middle of the arena—fists missed, kicks swept through empty air, elbows brushed past clothing. Only the scrape of shifting footsteps echoed across the mat. After several exchanges, neither had been hurt, though both were breathing more heavily than before.

Hisoka suddenly closed in. Kurapika instinctively retreated, but Hisoka's hand had already settled on his shoulder, steadying him. That face painted with a star and a teardrop stopped only inches from Kurapika's. Tilting his head, Hisoka's golden eyes slowly swept over Kurapika's taut jawline. Then he leaned close to Kurapika's ear and murmured several things about the Phantom Troupe.

The entire hall fell silent for several seconds. All anyone saw were Kurapika's fingers hanging at his side, clenching and loosening, clenching and loosening. Hisoka stepped back and raised one hand. "I surrender."

The hall erupted. Leorio sprang up from his chair. "He surrendered again?! Does he do this with everyone?!"

Kurapika did not kneel. He stood perfectly straight, though his fists were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. He had not passed by winning. He had traded for it with words from a spider's mouth. When he stepped down from the arena, he did not return to his seat. He merely stood in the shadow of a corridor pillar, his back to everyone.

Netero stroked his beard and turned toward Saitama. "What did Hisoka say?"

"Information about the Phantom Troupe. I forgot the details," Saitama said. "The author's pretty good at planting foreshadowing to keep people hooked."

Netero did not understand what "planting foreshadowing" meant, but he had grown used to the strange words Saitama occasionally came out with. He took it as some kind of insight beyond his comprehension and slowly nodded.

The electronic screen displayed the third match-up: Hanzo VS Pokkle.

Hanzo pressed his palms together in a ninja salute, then flashed onto the arena. Pokkle climbed up from the other side, still gripping his bow and arrows—in a hand-to-hand arena, they had almost no room to be useful. Hanzo attacked. He moved so fast that Pokkle was slammed onto the mat before he could even see what had happened. He got up, only to be thrown again. The instant he was pinned down for the third time, Pokkle felt the cold edge of a kunai against his throat and shouted with all his strength, "I surrender!" Hanzo sheathed his blade and flashed off the arena. There had been no suspense in this match—the gap in strength was plain to see. Pokkle could not hold on, and Hanzo could not be bothered wasting any more effort.

Netero turned toward Saitama. "You didn't predict this match."

"There was no need to. He's different from Gon," Saitama said. Netero slowly nodded—he thought Saitama meant Pokkle lacked Gon's fighting spirit. In truth, Saitama had simply watched this episode and knew Pokkle would lose quickly. The misunderstanding deepened Netero's admiration for Saitama once more.

The electronic screen displayed the fourth match-up: Hisoka VS Bodoro.

Bodoro stepped onto the arena with steady strides. He was the oldest martial artist among this group of examinees, with graying hair and fists covered in calluses. Hisoka did not use playing cards—he slipped past Bodoro's straight punch, sidestepped his spinning kick, and drove an elbow into his back. Bodoro staggered two steps, steadied himself, and took up his stance again. Hisoka fired several quick punches at his abdomen and shoulders in succession. Bodoro dropped to one knee, breathing heavily, but gritted his teeth and prepared to refuse surrender to the bitter end, just like Gon. Hisoka suddenly leaned close to his ear and whispered something. Bodoro's expression shifted from resolve to shock, then from shock to silence. He lowered his head. "I surrender."

Netero turned toward Saitama. "What did he say this time?"

"I really don't remember. Who remembers some random extra like that?" Saitama said. Netero fell silent for a moment. He thought Saitama meant, "An opponent of that level isn't worth remembering." In truth, Saitama simply could not remember a character who disappeared after appearing for barely a few episodes.

Hehe! Togashi got it wrong this time!

The electronic screen displayed the fifth match-up: Killua VS Pokkle.

Pokkle had barely reached the center of the arena when Killua raised a hand. "I surrender. I don't want to fight someone without ability." Pokkle froze on the arena, nearly dropping the bow in his hand. This was the third match in a row that had placed him in the center of the arena, and not one of them had ended normally. Killua jumped down from the edge of the arena, leaned back in his seat, and shoved both hands into his pockets.

Netero announced the next match: Bodoro VS Leorio. Leorio stood up, glanced at Bodoro, who sat in the corner with his eyes closed in rest, and raised a hand toward Netero. "Bodoro was injured by Hisoka just now. Postpone our match." Netero approved.

The electronic screen continued scrolling before displaying the next match-up: Killua VS Illumi.

Killua raised his head. On the other side of the arena, Illumi walked up with stiff, mechanical steps and stopped in the very center. The clamor in the hall suddenly sank away—not into silence, but as though something had seized everyone by the throat. Illumi slowly raised a hand, his fingertips stopping at the first Nen Needle. Leorio stopped rubbing his wrist. Kurapika lifted his head from the shadow of the corridor pillar. Pokkle forgot to chew the gum in his mouth.

Killua rose from his seat. His breathing slowed, so slow that even he could no longer hear it. The two stared at each other across the arena. One was pulling out a needle; the other was watching.

Saitama stood beside Netero, his hands hanging at his sides. He had seen this confrontation. He knew what would happen next—a brother's twisted love for his younger brother, a child utterly destroyed by the words of his closest family, the moment he accidentally killed an innocent old man. Every plot point had already been arranged. He merely stood there, waiting for it to happen.