Fear Made the Body Choose Its Most Primitive Instinct

The threads dancing through the air froze at the instant Saitama clenched his fist.

The next second, they shattered with a thunderous crash.

Black motes fell onto the arena like snow. Salas was sent flying by the force of the punch, slamming heavily into the golden protective barrier around the arena.

He did not land steadily as before—the white robe had been shredded to pieces by the punch's wind, exposing skin covered in bloody marks beneath it. The metal wire ring around his collarbone snapped in two and fell to the ground with a crisp clang.

He clutched his chest and coughed up a mouthful of black blood, then raised his head to look at Saitama standing in the center of the arena.

Just now, he had exhausted every ounce of his Nen, compressing himself and all the threads into a gauze-thin scarf.

It allowed him to slip like water and soften like air.

He had thought that would disperse Saitama's punching force.

He had done it—but he had only managed not to die.

The scarf blocked ninety-nine point nine percent of the force. The remaining zero point one percent had already shattered three of his ribs and torn apart half his internal organs.

"So... this is a Normal Punch."

Salas laughed softly, blood continuously spilling from the corner of his mouth.

All his former elegance, all his pride, all his obsession with art had been smashed to pieces in that instant.

For the first time, he was so close to death that he could smell the rust on the Grim Reaper.

He had always thought he was not afraid of dying—being able to die in a perfect work of art was the greatest honor for a Nen user.

But at the moment Saitama's fist truly struck his body.

He was afraid.

So afraid that his entire body trembled, so afraid that he could not even lift a finger.

"I don't want to die."

That thought slithered into his mind like a venomous snake, more powerful than any Nen.

Saitama held the bottle of barbecue sauce and tilted his head.

"Are you okay?"

He took a step forward.

That single step became the final straw that broke Salas.

He watched the bald man walk toward him step by step—without killing intent, without anger, without even the slightest emotion, as if he were simply walking over to crush an ant.

"Don't come any closer!"

Salas screamed, wildly waving both hands.

The remaining threads burst from his fingertips, shooting toward Saitama like mad.

Saitama casually waved a hand, and every thread snapped.

Salas collapsed onto the ground, his back pressed tightly against the protective barrier.

The shadow of death engulfed him like a tide. His body began shaking uncontrollably as Nen surged chaotically through him.

To survive, his body made its most instinctive choice.

"Crack."

The first thread detached from his arm.

Then came the second, the third.

Countless threads ten thousand times thinner than a strand of hair burrowed out of his skin.

His body was gradually coming apart—not collapsing, but deconstructing.

He dismantled every muscle, every bone, every drop of blood into the tiniest units of thread, like unraveling a piece of cloth into countless cotton strands.

"So that's it..."

Salas's voice became fragmented.

"So the essence of evasion was never prediction—it was disappearance."

"Break yourself into fragments small enough to merge with the air."

"Then you'll never be hit."

His body completely vanished from where he stood.

In its place was a sky full of swirling black dust—no, not dust.

Mosquitoes.

Millions of thread mosquitoes, each smaller than the tip of a needle.

Their wings beat too fast for the naked eye to see, leaving only a faint buzzing that made one's scalp crawl.

This was not the sublimation of art. It was the product of fear.

He could feel that he could not maintain this form for long. Once the limit was exceeded, his Nen would be completely exhausted, turning him into a cripple.

But that was fine.

Thirty seconds would be enough.

Enough to drive this bald man insane.

Saitama looked up at the mosquitoes filling the air and rubbed his chin.

"Oh? You turned into mosquitoes. I hate mosquitoes the most."

He raised his hand and threw a punch. The howling force of it swept across half the arena, crushing several hundred mosquitoes.

But the remaining millions instantly scattered, then gathered again.

Like water splashed across the ground, impossible to shatter.

Salas's voice came from deep within the swarm. It was no longer gentle or elegant, but sharp and hoarse, filled with resentment and smugness.

"Can't hit me, can you? Saitama!"

"You'll never hit me!"

"So what if you're strong? You can't even kill a mosquito!"

He had changed.

The artist who pursued the ultimate beauty had already died beneath that Normal Punch.

What remained was a vile coward willing to do anything to survive.

He no longer pursued any perfect performance. He only wanted to win, no matter how ugly or despicable that victory might be.

He controlled the swarm and began circling Saitama—not attacking, only harassing him.

A mosquito landed on Saitama's ear.

"Bzzz—"

Saitama raised his hand and slapped at it, missing.

Another mosquito landed on his hair.

"Bzzz—"

Saitama slapped again, but still missed.

The third mosquito landed on the bottle of barbecue sauce in his hand.

"Don't touch my barbecue sauce!"

Saitama suddenly swung his hand. The bottle shook, and the mosquito flew away.

The audience seats fell silent. Everyone was dumbfounded.

Genos's mechanical pupils flickered frantically, data scrolling too quickly to make out.

Warning: Target has decomposed into over 1.2 million units. Individual volume is less than 0.01 cubic millimeters. Unable to lock on.

Killua's expression turned extremely ugly. He said in a low voice that it was too despicable—Salas was not fighting at all; he was torturing someone.

Hisoka's playing card hovered in midair.

The card at his fingertips gleamed coldly, like a congealed drop of blood, reflecting the sudden frost in his eyes.

The false smile that always hung at the corner of his mouth, its curve never even a fraction off, now silently peeled away like shattered glass.

He had thought Salas would be a fellow "combat artist"—someone who turned slaughter into a magnificent gamble, wagering life itself and dancing along the blade's edge.

But the figure writhing before him like a maggot was nothing more than an empty shell hollowed out by fear.

Even the word "coward" would soil my tongue.

He slowly gathered his cards, his fingertips brushing their edges with the flirtatious lightness of caressing a lover's earlobe.

This was not some habit of licking cards, but a ritual unique to him—using his fingertips to confirm the lingering warmth of slaughter.

Salas's "fall" burrowed into his nerves like a poisonous insect, forcing him to press his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he slowly savored a cruel truth: those who pursued the beauty of battle might not all retain their elegance beneath death's noose.

And what about Hisoka himself?

He had killed countless strong opponents, but no one had ever driven him to the brink where life shattered at its very peak.

Would that be the ecstasy of madness? Or an abyss of despair?

That thornlike thought pierced his throat, and he abruptly swallowed every thought down.

Scarlet crept back into his pupils. His tongue pressed against the roots of his teeth, grinding out a nearly inaudible scoff.

He forced that thought back into the depths of his throat and continued watching the arena, unconsciously rubbing the corner of a card between his fingers until he wore a deep crease into the edge of the Ace of Spades.