Thread Theater

The motion-sensor lights in the corridor on the 110th floor flickered on and off.

Saitama leaned against the wall, carrying a plastic bag of grilled meat sauce he had packed from the cafeteria that morning, and waited for three minutes.

The system interface was completely blank. It had not even loaded his opponent's name or number.

He switched the plastic bag to his left hand, sloshed the half-finished bottle of mineral water inside, then turned and walked into the arena.

The stands were already full.

The blue glow of interdimensional teleportation had long since faded. Everyone had grown used to the routine—whenever Saitama stepped into the ring, they would appear here right on time.

Genos put down his instant noodle bowl, his mechanical pupils automatically focusing on the center of the arena.

Gon leaned half his body over the railing, his fingers clenched so tightly they had turned white.

Killua reclined against his seat, twirling an unopened chocolate bar in his hand.

Hisoka's playing cards spun rapidly between his fingers, his golden eyes fixed on the entrance.

Boros remained silent in the highest row. His single eye shone with a steady dark-gold light in the darkness, like a star suspended above the audience.

The shadows moved.

He did not walk out.

He was pulled by an invisible thread, his toes barely touching the ground as he slowly glided out from the shadows in the corner of the arena like a feather swept along by the wind.

His pale golden hair was braided into a loose plait, with more than a dozen tiny silver metal rings hanging from its end. They swayed gently with his movements, making an almost inaudible tinkling sound.

He wore a tailored white robe, its cuffs and collar embroidered with black thread patterns.

Every finger was covered in a fingerstall woven from black threads. His knuckles were long and elegant, like a pianist's hands.

A faint pink old scar lay beneath his collarbone, especially conspicuous against the white fabric.

Salas Veyel.

He did not roll his neck like Tyson, nor did he clench his fists in provocation.

He simply stood in the middle of the arena, slowly examining Saitama from head to toe with the gaze of someone admiring an unfinished sculpture.

His eyes passed over Saitama's faded yellow T-shirt.

Over his sneakers, stained with a little cafeteria grease.

Finally, they settled on the crumpled plastic bag in his hand.

"You are Saitama."

His voice was warm and unhurried, every word trailing out at length like a softly plucked string.

"More inconspicuous than I imagined—but also cleaner than I imagined."

He took a step forward without making a sound.

The hem of his robe brushed across the arena tiles, sliding over them like running water.

"I have seen many powerful people. All of them bore traces of desire: greed, anger, vanity, fear of death."

"Those things cling to their Nen like stains. The stronger they are, the thicker the stains become."

"But you have none."

He tilted his head slightly, pale golden lashes lowering to hide the light in his eyes.

"There is nothing on you. You are like a blank sheet of paper. That is rare."

Saitama blinked.

He did not understand anything about blank paper or stains. He only felt that this guy spoke in more circles than Genos did when giving a report.

Instinctively, he looked toward the front row of the stands.

Genos was holding his instant noodle bowl, his mechanical eyes locked on the arena.

Saitama suddenly remembered something and shouted across the entire arena.

"Genos!"

Genos instantly sat upright, placing the noodle bowl on his lap as his mechanical pupils flared brightly.

"Master!"

"Did you bring in the laundry from the balcony?"

"I did. It has been folded and placed on the second shelf of the wardrobe as you instructed."

"Has the milk in the fridge expired?"

"It was replaced with a new batch yesterday. It still has seven days left before expiration."

"You didn't burn down the kitchen today, did you?"

"No, Master. I used the induction cooker today and set it to the lowest heat."

As Genos spoke, he swiftly pulled out the black notebook he carried with him and began scribbling in it.

Master is concerned about household matters. He is reminding me to maintain proper logistical support. Write it down.

Saitama nodded in relief.

The threads in Salas's hand trembled.

He had prepared that opening speech for three full days.

His carefully polished artistic declaration.

The dissection ritual he had spent an entire battle preparing.

All of it had been smashed to pieces by one sentence: "You didn't burn down the kitchen today, did you?"

The black threads at his fingertips tightened beyond his control.

The smile on Salas's face did not change, but a faint flash of irritation passed through his eyes.

He said nothing.

He merely moved his fingers slightly.

Three black threads finer than spider silk shot out soundlessly.

There was no whistle through the air, no flash of light.

They were so fast that even Killua caught only a faint afterimage.

The threads slashed toward Saitama's forearm, cheek, and neck respectively.

This was his most commonly used probing attack.

It was enough to cut through a one-meter-thick steel plate.

Genos immediately rose from the stands, cannon muzzles deploying from his mechanical arms.

Hisoka suddenly clenched his playing cards.

Saitama was about to ask whether the goldfish had been fed.

Then he suddenly felt a little itchy on his arm and face.

He raised a hand and scratched his forearm.

Then rubbed his cheek.

"Strange."

He frowned and looked around.

"Why am I suddenly a little itchy?"

Seeing that his master was unharmed, Genos silently sat back down.

He continued writing in his notebook:

Master's skin defense surpasses every known metal. Write it down.

Salas's pupils abruptly contracted to pinpoints.

His threads.

Threads that could cut through steel.

Had left nothing but a faint itch on this bald man.

Saitama did not pay it any mind.

He lowered his head to check the plastic bag in his hand, making sure the grilled meat sauce was still there, then looked up.

At Salas, who was still standing where he was.

"Are you done? If you're done, I'm going back to sleep."

Salas smiled.

Not the smug smile Tyson wore, nor the perverted smile Hisoka wore.

It was the heartfelt delight of an artist seeing the perfect canvas.

He raised his right hand and gently spread his fingers.

Countless black threads, each finer than a strand of hair, slowly flowed from his fingertips, blooming in his palm like black petals.

The threads gleamed with a cold metallic sheen beneath the lights. Every one of them was drawn taut, their edges trembling faintly.

"My Nen ability is called 'Thread Theater.'"

His voice remained gentle, yet it carried unquestionable control.

"It can weave Nen into threads of any form. These threads can cut steel, control puppets, seal Nen nodes, and even create illusions realistic enough to pass for truth."

The threads danced softly in the air like a swarm of black butterflies.

"Beauty requires patience, Saitama. Violence can only shatter things, while art requires dissection."

"I will use a thousand threads to peel away your shell layer by layer and see what exactly is hidden within the fibers of that blank sheet of paper."

Before his words had even faded.

Five threads suddenly snapped taut.

Like five bolts of black lightning.

They shot toward Saitama's neck, wrists, and ankles.

They were so fast they were nearly invisible to the naked eye. The threads sliced through the air with a sharp hiss.

Saitama stood still.

Only when the threads were about to touch his skin did he lightly flex his wrist.