Clap!
Five black threads capable of slicing through alloy snapped all at once like cotton thread.
Salas's pupils constricted sharply.
"Interesting."
He abruptly spread his ten fingers, and dozens of threads shot out like a rainstorm, instantly weaving an airtight cage in the center of the arena, covering Saitama from all directions.
"An idiot like Tyson only knows how to smash with brute force."
"I don't need to pierce your defense; I just need to trap you."
The cage shrank frantically.
The threads brushed against the ground, and the hard granite floor tiles were cut into neat fragments like tofu.
Saitama sidestepped to dodge a thread flying straight at him, carefully switched the plastic bag in his hand to his other hand, and tiptoed over to an intact floor tile to set it down.
That was the discounted barbecue sauce he had deliberately walked three blocks out of his way to buy today.
"Your defense is on a completely different level from Tyson's."
Salas's fingers danced rapidly, the threads changing into countless forms in his hands.
"Tyson is a carapace; no matter how hard it is, there are cracks. But you are a canopy, without a single gap."
He jerked his hands upward.
Hundreds of threads rose into the air, slowly unfolding beneath the dome to weave into a giant black datura flower.
Every single petal was composed of thousands of vibrating thread blades, and sunlight poured through the gaps, breathtakingly beautiful.
"This is my proudest work."
Salas's voice carried an artist's pride.
"I have used it to dissect seven A-rank phantom beasts, and no one has ever walked out of this flower."
Saitama looked up for three seconds, touched his chin, and nodded earnestly.
"It feels inferior to Tyson's."
The air instantly froze.
Pfft—
In the front row of the audience, someone failed to hold back a laugh.
Gon scratched his head and whispered to Killua, "I also think that big gorilla Tyson's transformation is more impressive; this flower looks soft and limp."
Killua bit down on a chocolate bar and nodded in deep agreement.
The playing card Hisoka had been half-spinning paused, and the smile at the corner of his mouth twisted into something far more excited.
The smile on Salas's face froze completely.
He stared at Saitama for a full three seconds, then waved a hand violently, causing the black datura to dissipate instantly.
"You compare my art to that beast who only knows how to transform."
His voice remained gentle, but a cold killing intent surged deep within his eyes.
"Since you like brute force, I will crush you with brute force."
Several black ropes as thick as arms whistled out, tightly wrapping around Saitama's limbs and waist like living snakes.
Salas's Nen erupted all over his body, veins bulging on his arms as he yanked backward hard!
The force of that pull was enough to send a three-ton truck flying ten meters.
Saitama didn't budge an inch.
He stood like a nail driven into the ground, and the floor tiles beneath his feet cracked with fine lines.
The ropes were pulled taut, emitting an unbearable creaking sound.
Snap—!
With a crisp sound, the ropes broke in half from the middle.
Refusing to believe it, Salas caused the broken threads to instantly recombine, once again entangling Saitama's body.
This time he used ten times his Nen, and the threads sank deeply into Saitama's clothes.
Saitama took a step forward.
All the threads wrapped around his body simultaneously went slack.
As if all their strength had been drained, they hung limply against the ground.
Salas staggered back two steps, an expression of disbelief appearing on his face for the very first time.
All his calculations, all his techniques, and all his proud precision control were as laughable as a child's toys in the face of absolute strength.
Yet he did not back down.
An artist never turns away in front of a perfect canvas.
He took a deep breath and formed a complex hand seal in front of his chest.
Countless translucent silver threads surged from within his body, interweaving in the air into a transparent curtain that sealed off every exit of the entire ring.
Thread Theater, Act Two: Illusion.
Salas's voice was hoarse.
"Everything you see, hear, and touch is fake."
Three doubles identical to him walked out from behind the curtain, raising their hands simultaneously as thousands of silver threads shot toward Saitama from all directions, leaving no blind spots.
Saitama didn't even look up at those doubles.
At the exact moment the threads were about to strike him, he suddenly whirled around and threw a punch toward the empty space behind him.
Bang!
The transparent curtain shattered instantly.
The three doubles simultaneously dissolved into flying specks of light across the sky.
Salas clutched his chest and violently spat out a mouthful of blood.
"How did you know I was there?!"
Saitama scratched his head with a blank look on his face.
"Don't know. Just felt like someone was peeking at me from behind."
Salas fell silent.
He finally understood that this man didn't need 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 ring.
A crazy thought arose in his mind.
"So even a blank sheet of paper has creases."
Salas abruptly spread his ten fingers, holding back no remaining strength.
Thousands of black threads gushed out from between his fingers, covering the entire ring like a rainstorm!
The threads sliced through the air, emitting a deafening screech. The floor tiles were cut into powder, and the golden protective barrier of Heaven's Arena rippled violently.
Saitama stood at the center of the storm, letting the threads fly around him.
His gaze stared fixedly at that plastic bag.
A few snapped threads, caught by the airflow, drifted toward the corner.
Rip--
A long slit was cut open in the plastic bag.
Half a bottle of barbecue sauce rolled out from inside, hitting the pile of rubble with a splash and the bottle body covered in dust.
Saitama's brow furrowed for the first time.
He bent down to pick up the barbecue sauce bottle, carefully wiped the dust off its surface three times with his sleeve, and then cradled it carefully in his arms.
When he straightened his body again, the nonchalant, lazy expression on his face completely vanished.
Salas watched his movements, a crazy smile hooking the corner of his mouth.
"Found it! I finally found your weakness!"
His ten fingers tightened abruptly.
All the threads simultaneously reversed direction, shooting overwhelmingly toward the barbecue sauce bottle in Saitama's arms!
Saitama raised his right hand.
His fist closed gently.
Time froze at this moment.
The threads dancing all over the sky stopped mid-air.
All the cheers and shouts from the spectator stands vanished instantly.
The playing card Hisoka was spinning halfway froze at his fingertips.
The smiles on Gon's and Killua's faces instantly solidified.
In the entire Heaven's Arena, only Saitama's cold voice remained, echoing clearly beside everyone's ears.
"You touched my barbecue sauce."
"You're dead."
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