My Barbecue Sauce? Die!

Smack!

Five black threads capable of slicing through alloy snapped in unison like cotton thread.

Salas's pupils contracted sharply.

"Interesting."

He flung his ten fingers open, sending dozens of threads shooting out like torrential rain. In an instant, they wove into an airtight cage at the center of the arena, closing in on Saitama from all directions.

"An idiot like Tyson only knows how to smash things with brute force."

"I don't need to break through your defenses. I only need to trap you."

The cage rapidly tightened.

The threads scraped across the ground, slicing the hard granite tiles into neat chunks as easily as tofu.

Saitama sidestepped a thread flying straight at him, carefully switched the plastic bag in his hand to the other hand, then tiptoed over to an intact floor tile and set it down.

He had gone out of his way to circle three streets today just to buy that discounted barbecue sauce.

"Your defenses are on a completely different level from Tyson's."

Salas's fingers danced rapidly, and the threads shifted through countless forms in his hands.

"Tyson is a shell. No matter how hard it is, it still has cracks. But you are the sky itself, without the slightest gap."

He abruptly raised both hands.

Hundreds of threads rose into the air and slowly unfurled beneath the dome, weaving themselves into a gigantic black mandala.

Every petal consisted of thousands of trembling thread blades. Sunlight streamed through the gaps, making it breathtakingly beautiful.

"This is my proudest work."

Salas's voice carried an artist's pride.

"I've dissected seven A-rank magical beasts with it. No one has ever walked out of this flower alive."

Saitama looked up for three seconds, rubbed his chin, and nodded seriously.

"Doesn't seem as good as Tyson's."

The air instantly froze.

"Pfft—"

Someone in the front row of the audience failed to hold back a laugh.

Gon scratched his head and whispered to Killua, "I think Tyson's gorilla transformation was stronger too. This flower looks all soft and flimsy."

Killua bit into his chocolate bar and nodded in full agreement.

The playing card Hisoka had been spinning halfway around his fingers paused, while the smile at the corner of his lips twisted with increasing excitement.

The smile on Salas's face completely froze.

He stared at Saitama for a full three seconds, then swept his hand sharply. The black mandala vanished at once.

"You compare my art to that beast who only knows how to transform."

His voice remained gentle, but cold killing intent churned in his eyes.

"Since you like brute force, then I'll crush you with brute force."

Several black ropes as thick as arms came whistling out, winding tightly around Saitama's limbs, waist, and abdomen like living serpents.

Salas's Nen exploded outward in an instant. Veins bulged across his arms as he yanked backward!

That pull carried enough force to fling a three-ton truck ten meters.

Saitama did not move an inch.

He stood like a nail hammered into the ground, while fine cracks spread across the tiles beneath his feet.

The ropes stretched taut and creaked under unbearable strain.

Snap—!

With a crisp crack, the ropes broke in half at the middle.

Salas refused to accept it. The severed threads instantly reformed and wrapped around Saitama again.

This time, he used ten times as much Nen, and the threads dug deeply into Saitama's clothes.

Saitama took one step forward.

Every thread wrapped around him came loose at the same time.

As if all their strength had been drained away, they drooped limply onto the ground.

Salas staggered back two steps, and disbelief appeared on his face for the first time.

All his calculations, all his techniques, all the precise control he was so proud of—before absolute strength, they were as laughable as children's toys.

But he did not retreat.

An artist would never turn away from a perfect canvas.

He took a deep breath and formed a complex hand seal before his chest.

Countless translucent silver threads surged out from his body, intertwining in the air into a transparent curtain that sealed every exit from the arena.

Thread Theater: Second Layer—Illusion.

Salas's voice was hoarse.

"Everything you see, hear, and touch is fake."

Three doubles identical to him emerged from behind the curtain. They raised their hands at the same time, and thousands of silver threads shot toward Saitama from every direction, leaving no blind spots.

Saitama did not even look up at the doubles.

Just as the threads were about to strike him, he abruptly turned and punched at the empty space behind him.

Bang!

The transparent curtain shattered instantly.

The three doubles simultaneously dissolved into a sky full of glowing motes.

Salas clutched his chest and violently spat out a mouthful of blood.

"How did you know I was there?!"

Saitama scratched his head, looking utterly baffled.

"I didn't. I just felt like someone was peeking at me from behind."

Salas fell silent.

He finally understood. This man did not need his eyes, nor did he need Nen perception.

His body itself was the most precise killing machine.

His gaze slowly shifted toward the inconspicuous plastic bag in the corner of the arena.

A mad thought rose in his mind.

"So even blank paper has creases."

Salas abruptly spread all ten fingers, no longer holding back in the slightest.

Thousands of black threads surged from between his fingers, blanketing the entire arena like a rainstorm!

The threads sliced through the air with deafening shrieks. The floor tiles were reduced to powder, and even Heaven's Arena's golden protective barrier rippled violently.

Saitama stood in the center of the storm, allowing the threads to dance around him.

His gaze remained fixed on that plastic bag.

Several broken threads were swept by the airflow toward the corner.

Riiip—

A long gash was cut into the plastic bag.

Half a bottle of barbecue sauce rolled out, landing among the rubble with a plop. Dust covered the bottle.

For the first time, Saitama frowned.

He bent down and picked up the bottle of barbecue sauce, meticulously wiping the dust from it three times with his sleeve before carefully holding it against his chest.

When he straightened again, the indifferent, lazy expression on his face had completely vanished.

Watching his movements, Salas's lips curled into a crazed smile.

"Found it! I've finally found your weakness!"

He clenched his ten fingers tightly.

All the threads changed direction at once, shooting overwhelmingly toward the bottle of barbecue sauce in Saitama's arms!

Saitama raised his right hand.

His fist slowly clenched.

At that moment, time stopped.

The threads filling the sky froze in midair.

All the cheers and shouts from the audience vanished in an instant.

The playing card Hisoka had been spinning halfway around his fingers stiffened at his fingertips.

The smiles on Gon and Killua's faces froze at once.

Throughout all of Heaven's Arena, only Saitama's cold voice echoed clearly in everyone's ears.

"You touched my barbecue sauce."

"You're dead."