The threads flying across the sky froze the instant Saitama clenched his fist.
The next second, they shattered with a thunderous crash.
Black specks fell onto the arena like snow. The force of the punch sent Salas flying backward, slamming him into the golden protective barrier.
He didn't land on his feet as he had before. The force had torn his white robe to shreds, exposing skin crisscrossed with bloody marks. The metal ring around his collarbone snapped in two and fell to the ground with a clear chime.
Clutching his chest, he coughed up a mouthful of black blood and looked up at Saitama, who stood in the center of the arena.
For that last blow, he had poured every bit of his Nen into compressing himself and all his threads into a scarf as thin as a cicada's wing.
It had let him slip like water and yield like air.
He had thought that would let him deflect the force of Saitama's punch.
He had succeeded—but only in staying alive.
The scarf had absorbed ninety-nine percent of the force. The fraction left over had shattered three of his ribs and torn through half his organs.
"So... that's a Normal Punch."
Salas gave a quiet laugh. Blood kept spilling from the corner of his mouth.
All his elegance, all his pride, all his devotion to art had been smashed to pieces in that instant.
For the first time, he had come so close to death he could smell the rust on the Grim Reaper.
He had always thought he wasn't afraid to die. To die for a perfect work of art was the greatest honor a Nen user could know.
But the moment Saitama's fist had actually struck him...
He had been afraid.
So afraid his whole body shook. So afraid he couldn't even lift a finger.
I don't want to die.
The thought burrowed into his mind like a venomous snake, stronger than any Nen.
Saitama cradled his bottle of barbecue sauce and tilted his head.
"Are you okay?"
He took a step forward.
That single step broke what was left of Salas's resolve.
He watched the bald man walk toward him, step by step. There was no killing intent, no anger, not even any emotion. He might as well have been coming over to squash an ant.
"Stay away!"
Salas screamed and flailed his arms.
The remaining threads poured from his fingertips and shot toward Saitama in a frenzy.
Saitama waved a hand, and every thread snapped.
Salas slumped to the ground with his back pressed against the barrier.
The shadow of death swallowed him like a rising tide. His body began to tremble uncontrollably, and Nen ran wild inside him.
To stay alive, his body made the most instinctive choice.
Crack.
The first thread peeled away from his arm.
Then came a second. A third.
Countless threads, each ten thousand times finer than a strand of hair, emerged from his skin.
His body was coming apart bit by bit—not collapsing, but unraveling.
He broke down every muscle, every bone, every drop of blood into the finest threads, as though pulling a piece of cloth apart into countless cotton fibers.
"So that's it..."
Salas's voice came out in fragments.
"The secret to dodging was never predicting the attack. It was disappearing."
"Break yourself into pieces small enough to blend into the air."
"Then you can never be hit."
His body vanished completely.
In its place, black dust filled the air—no, it wasn't dust.
It was mosquitoes.
Millions of thread mosquitoes smaller than the point of a needle.
Their wings beat too fast for the naked eye to see. All anyone could hear was a faint, skin-crawling buzz.
This was no triumph of art. Fear had made it.
He could feel that he couldn't maintain this form for long. If he stayed like this past the limit, his Nen would run dry, leaving him powerless.
But that didn't matter.
Thirty seconds would be enough.
Enough to drive that bald man mad.
Saitama looked up at the mosquitoes filling the air and rubbed his chin.
"Oh? You turned into mosquitoes. I hate mosquitoes more than anything."
He threw a punch. The force swept across half the arena, crushing hundreds of mosquitoes.
But the millions that remained scattered at once, then gathered again.
They were like water spilled across the ground. No matter how hard he struck, he couldn't smash them.
Salas's voice came from deep within the swarm. Its warmth and elegance were gone, replaced by a sharp, hoarse rasp full of spite and smug delight.
"Can't hit me, can you, Saitama?"
"You'll never hit me!"
"So what if you're strong? You can't even kill one mosquito!"
He had changed.
The artist who had pursued ultimate beauty had died under that Normal Punch.
What survived was a treacherous man willing to do anything to stay alive.
He no longer cared about a perfect performance. He only wanted to win, however ugly or despicable the victory might be.
He sent the swarm circling Saitama. The mosquitoes no longer attacked; they only harassed him.
One mosquito landed on Saitama's ear.
"Bzzzz—"
Saitama slapped at it and missed.
Another mosquito landed on his hair.
"Bzzzz—"
Saitama slapped again and missed again.
A third mosquito landed on the barbecue sauce bottle in his hand.
"Don't touch my barbecue sauce!"
Saitama jerked his hand. The bottle wobbled, and the mosquito flew away.
The stands fell silent. Everyone stared in disbelief.
The pupils of Genos's mechanical eyes flickered wildly as data streamed past too fast to read.
"Warning: Target has separated into over 1.2 million units. Individual volume below 0.01 cubic millimeters. Unable to lock on."
Killua's expression darkened. He muttered that it was too despicable. Salas wasn't fighting at all; he was tormenting Saitama.
Hisoka's playing card hung motionless in midair.
The card at his fingertips gleamed coldly, like a drop of blood frozen in place, reflecting the sudden chill in his eyes.
The false smile he always wore, its curve never varying by a fraction, silently fell away like shattered glass.
He had thought Salas was a "combat artist" like himself—someone who turned slaughter into a dazzling wager, staked his life, and danced along a blade's edge.
But the figure cowering before him was nothing more than a husk hollowed out by fear.
Even calling him a coward would dirty my tongue.
He slowly gathered his cards. As the pad of his finger brushed an edge, the movement was as teasing as a caress against a lover's earlobe.
It was no card-licking habit, but a ritual that belonged to him alone: using his fingertips to feel the lingering warmth of a kill.
Salas's fall burrowed into his nerves like a poisonous insect. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he slowly chewed over a cruel truth: those who pursued beauty in battle could not all remain graceful with death's noose around their necks.
And what of Hisoka himself?
He had killed countless powerful opponents, but no one had ever pushed him to the brink of having his life shatter at its very peak.
Would that be the ecstasy of madness? Or the depths of despair?
The thought lodged in his throat like a barb, and he swallowed all his musings at once.
Crimson crept back into his eyes. He pressed his tongue against the roots of his teeth and let out a nearly inaudible scoff.
He pushed the thought back down his throat and kept watching the arena. His fingers worried at the corner of a card without him noticing, until they had worn a deep crease into the edge of the ace of spades.
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