The motion-sensor lights in the 110th-floor corridor flickered.
Saitama leaned against the wall with a plastic bag of barbecue sauce he had picked up from the cafeteria that morning. He had been waiting for three minutes.
The system interface was blank. Even his opponent's name and number hadn't loaded.
He shifted the bag to his left hand, sloshed the half-finished bottle of mineral water inside, and walked into the arena.
The stands were packed.
The blue glow of cross-dimensional teleportation had long since faded. Everyone was used to the routine by now—as soon as Saitama stepped into the ring, they would arrive right on time.
Genos set down his instant-meal bowl. His mechanical pupils focused automatically on the center of the ring.
Gon leaned halfway over the railing, gripping it until his fingers turned white.
Killua lounged against his seat, twirling an unopened chocolate bar.
Hisoka spun a playing card rapidly between his fingers, his golden eyes fixed on the entrance.
Boros remained silent in the highest row. His single eye shone a steady dark gold in the gloom, like a star suspended above the stands.
A shadow moved.
It didn't step out.
It drifted slowly from the corner of the ring, drawn by an invisible thread. Its toes barely touched the floor, like a feather caught in the wind.
Long pale-gold hair hung in a loose braid. More than a dozen fine silver wire rings adorned its end, swaying with his movements and making a chime too faint to hear.
He wore a fitted white robe, with black thread patterns embroidered along the cuffs and collar.
Each finger was wrapped in a sleeve woven from black thread. His long fingers looked like a pianist's.
An old, pale-pink scar lay below his collarbone, striking against the white fabric.
Salas Veyel.
He didn't roll his neck like Tyson or raise his fists in challenge.
He simply stood in the center of the ring and slowly looked Saitama up and down, as though admiring an unfinished sculpture.
His gaze passed over Saitama's faded yellow T-shirt.
Then over his sneakers, marked with a little grease from the cafeteria.
Finally, it settled on the crumpled plastic bag in his hand.
"You're Saitama."
His voice was warm and unhurried. Every word trailed off at length, like a gently plucked string.
"Less remarkable than I imagined—but cleaner, too."
He took a step forward without a sound.
The hem of his robe swept across the ring tiles, gliding like water.
"I've met many powerful people. They all carried traces of desire: greed, anger, vanity, fear of death."
"Those things cling to their Nen like stains. The stronger the person, the thicker the stains."
"But not you."
He tilted his head slightly. Pale-gold lashes lowered, hiding the light in his eyes.
"There's nothing on you. You're like a blank sheet of paper. That's rare."
Saitama blinked.
He didn't understand the talk about paper and stains. All he knew was that this guy was even more roundabout than Genos when he gave a report.
Saitama instinctively looked up at the front row.
Genos sat there holding his instant-meal bowl, his mechanical eyes fixed on the ring.
Saitama suddenly remembered something and shouted across the ring:
"Genos!"
Genos instantly sat up straight. He put the bowl on his knees, and his mechanical pupils lit up.
"Sensei!"
"Did you bring in the laundry from the balcony?"
"Yes. I folded it and placed it on the second shelf of the wardrobe, as you instructed."
"Has the milk in the fridge expired?"
"I replaced it yesterday. It has seven days left."
"You didn't burn down the kitchen today, did you?"
"No, Sensei. I used the induction cooktop today and set it to the lowest heat."
As Genos spoke, he whipped out the black notebook he carried and scribbled in it.
[Sensei is asking about household chores to remind me to keep our domestic affairs in order. Note this down.]
Saitama nodded, reassured.
The threads in Salas's hand trembled.
He had spent three whole days preparing his opening speech.
His carefully polished artistic manifesto.
The dissection ritual he had planned for this entire match.
All of it shattered by one question: "You didn't burn down the kitchen today, did you?"
The black threads at his fingertips pulled taut beyond his control.
Salas's smile didn't change, but a faint trace of irritation crossed his eyes.
He said nothing.
He merely moved his fingers.
Three black threads, finer than spider silk, shot out without a sound.
No rush of air. No flash of light.
They moved so fast that even Killua caught only the faintest blur.
The threads slashed toward Saitama's forearm, cheek, and neck.
It was his usual probing attack.
One capable of slicing through a steel plate one meter thick.
Genos sprang to his feet in the stands, a cannon barrel emerging from his mechanical arm.
Hisoka clenched his playing card.
Saitama was about to ask whether Genos had fed the goldfish.
Then his arm and face suddenly felt a little itchy.
He raised a hand and scratched his forearm.
Then rubbed his cheek.
"Weird."
He frowned and looked around.
"Why am I suddenly itchy?"
Seeing that his teacher was fine, Genos quietly sat down again.
He continued writing in his notebook:
[Sensei's skin is tougher than every known metal. Note this down.]
Salas's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
His threads.
Threads that could cut through steel.
Against this bald man—
They had caused nothing more than a little itch.
Saitama paid no attention.
He glanced down at the plastic bag to make sure the barbecue sauce was still there, then looked up.
Salas was still standing where he had been.
"Are you done? I want to go back to sleep."
Salas smiled.
Not with Tyson's smugness, or Hisoka's twisted delight.
It was the heartfelt joy of an artist who had found the perfect canvas.
He raised his right hand and gently spread his fingers.
Countless black threads, finer than hair, flowed from his fingertips and bloomed across his palm like black petals.
The threads gleamed coldly in the sunlight. Each was pulled straight, its edge trembling faintly.
"My Nen ability is called Thread Theater."
His voice was still gentle, but it carried an authority that brooked no argument.
"I can weave Nen into threads of any form. They can cut steel, control puppets, seal aura nodes, and even create illusions indistinguishable from reality."
The threads danced lightly in the air like a flock of black butterflies.
"Beauty requires patience, Saitama. Violence can only break things. Art requires dissection."
"I'll use a thousand threads to peel back your shell, layer by layer, and see what's hidden in the fibers of that blank page."
Before he finished speaking,
Five threads snapped taut.
Like five bolts of black lightning.
They shot toward Saitama's neck, wrists, and ankles.
They moved too fast for the eye to follow. The threads sliced through the air with a shrill hiss.
Saitama stood still.
Then, just as the threads were about to touch his skin, he gave one wrist a gentle twist.
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