Saitama Enters the Competition

From the 50th floor to the 100th floor, Gon and Killua took only two days.

Saitama broke the grilled corn from Heaven's Arena's free cafeteria in half. He watched every match from the last row of the stands. Gon stepped onto the stage, threw one punch, and his opponent flew out of the ring. Killua stepped onto the stage, struck with a knifehand, and his opponent fell. The cafeteria's grilled corn was unlimited, so he grabbed one after every match. The dipping sauce bottle in his plastic bag had already changed from one with Kukuroo Mountain's dragon-pattern label to the cafeteria's self-serve barbecue sauce.

They had reached the 100th floor. The electronic screen lit up with the promotion notice: 50th floor, 50,000 Jenny; 100th floor, roughly 1 million Jenny. Single rooms and the free cafeteria had both been unlocked.

"Killua, look! We won six matches. We can already go up to the 100th floor!" Gon waved his battle record card.

Killua leaned against the hallway wall with both hands in his pockets. "There are private rooms above the 100th floor. But as long as you get knocked below the 100th floor, you lose your room. A lot of people will use every possible means to avoid losing just so they can stay on this floor. Some people with unfathomable strength also deliberately remain on the 100th floor to train."

Saitama stood in the middle of the hallway, looking at Gon's room on the left, then Killua's room on the right. The two room numbers were side by side: 2157 and 2158. He looked again toward the end of the hallway—there were no other vacant rooms.

"Where's my room?"

"Saitama, you're not a competitor, so you don't have a room." Gon poked his head out of his room, still holding the white bathrobe he had just taken from the closet.

No room.

Saitama looked down at the plastic bag in his hand. Takeout barbecue sauce from the cafeteria, discounted potato chips he had bought from the convenience store last month, and half a bottle of mineral water. He placed the plastic bag on the hallway floor, crouched down, and rummaged through it. Everything he owned was in there, but none of it could conjure up a place for him to sleep.

The hallway. The tiles were hard, and the air-conditioning vent faced the center of the floor. It should be pretty cool to lie there. But he would hit the wall whenever he turned over. No good. It was about the same as the benches in the waiting room downstairs. Sleeping there for a night would make his back hurt.

There were free benches in the first-floor lobby, but the martial artists lining up to register tomorrow would step on him and wake him up. The rooftop should be empty, but the wind was strong, and his bag of chips would get blown away. The free cafeteria had seats, but it locked up at night.

He needed a room. The 100th floor had private rooms, but only competing fighters could stay in them. He was not a competitor.

"Where's the registration desk on the first floor?"

The first-floor registration hall was packed with noise. Dozens of rings were holding matches at once. Referees' whistles, spectators' cheers, and fighters' roars all blended together. Hundreds of names and their corresponding floors scrolled across the electronic screen in the center of the hall. A long line stood before the registration desk. Once they filled out a form, they could compete. Winning matches allowed them to climb to higher floors. The first floor was a strength assessment, where judges would determine which floor each contestant should be assigned to based on their performance over three minutes.

Saitama waited in line for quite a while before squeezing up to the counter. The staff member handed him a form and a pen. "Fill this out, then wait for your ring assignment. The first floor is a strength assessment. The referee will decide which floor you start from based on your performance. You get prize money if you win, and even if you lose, you get 152 Jenny—probably enough to buy a can of juice."

"Do you get a room if you win?"

"There are private rooms above the 100th floor. But if you lose and drop below the 100th floor, the room will be taken back."

Saitama lowered his head and filled out the form. Name: Saitama. Age: 25. He hesitated for a moment at the combat experience section, then wrote, "Been a hero for three years. Fought some monsters near my home," before handing the form back to the counter. The staff member tapped on the keyboard a few times. "Ring D. The referee will call your number."

Ring D. His opponent was a burly man who called himself "Iron Wall," and who had already won several matches on the first floor. His muscles bulged like rock, and fighting wraps were wound around his knuckles.

The referee raised the timer. "First-floor strength assessment—ready, begin!"

The burly man charged forward, spreading his arms as he assumed a grappling stance. His footsteps made heavy, dull thumps against the ring mat.

Saitama stood where he was, instinctively clenching his right fist. This punch was the same as countless others he had thrown in Z City—clench, swing, finish. His fist had already drawn back half an inch.

Then he suddenly remembered something—the person in front of him was not a monster.

Monsters could punch through ceilings, blast entire underground bases into ruins, or smash people and their armor straight into mountains. But this man was only an ordinary fighter. If he won, he got prize money. If he lost, he got 152 Jenny to go home and buy juice. If Saitama threw that punch, this man would probably fly straight out through Heaven's Arena's front entrance from the first floor.

He could no longer stop his fist. Saitama unclenched it, spread his fingers, and pressed his arm downward—the gust from his punch brushed past the burly man's shoulder and made the ring fence behind him rattle. The burly man froze for a moment, thinking the punch had missed, then immediately adjusted his footing and prepared to go for another grapple.

Saitama turned to avoid him. He stepped on the corner of the ring mat that the gust from his punch had shaken loose, tilted backward, and landed butt-first on the burly man's shoulders.

Before the burly man could react, the force of that sit-down sent his entire body flying backward. Saitama braced himself on the mat with one elbow as he landed, while the burly man crashed into the fence, bounced back, and fell flat on his back in the center of the ring.

The stands went silent for quite a while. Someone in the back rows stood up, while someone else set down their drink can.

The referee looked down at the fallen burly man, then up at Saitama, remaining silent for quite a while. Then he picked up his pen and wrote "50th floor" on the record board, crossed it out, and changed it to "100th floor." "Sir, do you have fighting experience?"

"I fought some monsters near my home."

"Your reaction speed, distance judgment, and landing control—all of it far exceeds the standards of the 50th floor." The referee turned the record board around. Written on it was: Recommended Floor: 100th Floor.

"Does the 100th floor have rooms?"

"Yes. There are private rooms above the 100th floor."

"Then the 100th floor it is." Saitama bent down, helped the burly man who was still lying on the ground to the edge of the ring, then turned and headed for the elevator.

The elevator stopped at the 100th floor. The doors opened, and Saitama walked out with his plastic bag in hand.

The hallway was still the same hallway from before. Gon was in room 2158, and Killua was in room 2157. His own room was at the end of the hallway: 2159. It was not large, but it had everything it needed: a single bed, a desk, a closet, and a private bathroom. He put his plastic bag on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed to test the firmness of the mattress.

Outside the window, the direction of Heaven's Arena was brightly lit. There was still more than half the dipping sauce left in his plastic bag, and he could take a hot shower tonight. The bathrobe in the closet was very white, and it felt like cotton.

Just as he was about to lie down, a faint electronic notification suddenly sounded in his mind. It did not come from outside the window or from the hallway—it came directly from deep inside his head. He had not heard that sound in a long time.

[Detected that the host has completed registration for Heaven's Arena and achieved victory in the first match]

[Hidden mission unlocked]

[Mission Name: Clear Heaven's Arena]

[Mission Objective: As a contestant, rise from the current floor all the way to the 251st floor, defeat every enemy blocking your path, and become Heaven's Arena's new floor master]

[Mission Time Limit: None]

[Mission Reward: After returning to the One-Punch Man world, restore all hair]

Saitama sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty wall in front of him.

Hmm.

He raised a hand and touched his bald head. Smooth, cool, and no need for shampoo. The mission reward... restore all...

He blinked.

Hair?

He remembered that morning three years ago when he had looked into the mirror and first discovered that his hairline was receding. Not long after that, every last strand had fallen out. For the past three years, he had been bald, smooth, cool, and free from buying shampoo.

"..." He opened his mouth at the empty air, then closed it again. Slowly, the corners of his lips curled upward into an almost foolish grin. "Hehehe."

[Mission accepted. Current progress: 100th floor. Target floor: 251st floor.]

He lay down and folded the bathrobe, placing it beside his pillow. His bald head gave off a faint, cold white sheen in the darkness. Hair. He closed his eyes, that foolish grin still hanging on his face. He would have to buy shampoo then. He wondered whether shampoo and conditioner would go on sale together when the supermarket had discounts.

In front of the television, Genos put a seaweed-flavored potato chip into his mouth. On the screen, his teacher was sitting on a single bed on the 100th floor, seriously checking the material of the bathrobe. He pulled up the replay of that strength assessment match—his teacher's right fist clenched, loosened, held back, turned, and butt-slammed his opponent flying. He froze the footage frame by frame: from the instant the punch's force was withdrawn to the step and seated landing, an extremely short amount of time had passed. The impact from the burly man's landing had been concentrated and contained within the radius of the ring fence. He wrote in his notebook: Teacher has entered the competition. Even his butt has been trained to invincibility. Note: The bathrobe is cotton.